Belleh

I’m not a “girly-girl”. I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve had a manicure and the number of times I’ve had a pedicure (which was such a terrific disaster involving blood – my blood - that my friends now know better than to even suggest it). I’ve never had a massage, a hot rock treatment or had anything made out of vegetables smeared over my face to clog my pores … I mean cleanse, of course I mean cleanse (unless it was an eating accident). My idea of pampering, with my limited world experience, would involve sitting in Washington Square with a slice of pizza while chatting and people watching. In fact, in this moment, I’m there right now; it’s like my own personal brain massage.

The one exception is when it comes to my hair. I LOVE hair day. All capital letters kind of love. I love going. I love blabbing. I love the bad magazines. I love the new cuts and I LOVE LOVE LOVE hair products. In fact, a great day for me would be getting the perfect cut, having it styled just so and walking out with some obscenely priced shampoo or coconut curl activator (the smell is heaven) or clear mousse that if I wanted I could make my hair stand straight up. My best Saturdays are spent this way and as a reward for having a good day, I’ve taken to swinging by Mangia’s Pizza. I get home and sit with pizza in hand and just veg the rest of the day in my post-hair, happy tummy trance.

I should also mention that I love my hair dresser, Kim. I know several people that go to her each one of them comes out with a cute/great cut that really suits them. And every six weeks for two hours, it’s my turn to sit in her chair and monopolize her time. We chat, I catch up on her stories (as you all know I live for a good story) and I read all of the magazines I’m too embarrassed to buy from the store.

This weekend I cheated. My time with my hairdresser wasn’t working out and I was telling myself it was time for a change. I’d find some place closer, someone who could meet on my schedule, maybe entertain me MORE if there could be a more.

Now let me tell you what my ideal salon would look like based on my favorite salon, Daya. It would have natural lighting, tropical plants, dark paneling, soft music and a water feature of some sort that bubbled. In it is someone whose paid to be a professional shampooer who also happens to be a massage therapist and they rub my head until it feels mushy and I’m on the edge of sleep. Did I say Washington Square? I’m sorry, I meant to say Daya.

Anyway, to the cheating. I chose a place across from my office which was in a sort of upscale shopping area – well, at least it’s desperately trying to be upscale, but I digress. I head into the salon ready for my new experience and the first thing that hit me was “Wow, this is BRIGHT” followed by “Wow, this is really LOUD!” Sure, none of the stylists had a decent hair cut, but hey, I can’t rate their skill based on their taste. I sit down and the first gal makes some suggestions about the color. “Sure!” I say, it all seemed reasonable. “Great! I’ll mix that up and send over your stylist.” Umm… ok, so they work in tandem. I’m ok with that; it’s a new place – a new experience. The stylist and I discuss my hair, she insults Kim’s cut (mind you, Kim falls under my loyalty umbrella and insulting Kim’s cut is similar to spitting on me, so she’s walking on very thin ice). She instantly redeems herself by whipping out a picture, it’s exactly what I’m trying to describe and she runs off. So far, this is looking a little promising.

Two plus hours of coloring later, I’m still ok. Sure, that process took forever – longer than Kim would have done it (in fact, I would be out of the door by now), but she’s very precise and those little foils were certainly perfectly folded if not a little on the OCD side of things. The gal told GREAT stories; she’s hysterical. I tried to remember them so I could share them (good stories should be passed around). I asked how they got started and she said they’d been at a corporate run chain salon. Now, maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking Super Cuts, Cost Cutters, Visible Changes… you see where I’m going with this.

Then I’m shuttled on to the stylist. Now mind you this is 2+ hours into the whole too loud, too bright, too sterile and too muchness of the whole experience. She’s got issues, big issues and apparently most of them would be solved if the state would not penalize you for beating your kids. “Don’t you agree?” Ummm… I don’t get into it, but for the record my Dad is a social worker and was a child protective services worker for years, removing kids from bad situations when needed. I’m aghast, but it doesn’t stop her from carrying on about how beating is just another acceptable form of child rearing. The whole time she’s rubbing her belly on me and it was more than a belly, it was “belleh”. Belleh was slowly squished against the length of my arm, around my back and down the other arm only to trace its path back again – never ending belleh. You know that hugging thing? Its got nothing on belleh. Thirty minutes of belleh. Belleh all over me. Belleh. I still twitch. With each pass of belleh, she’s also pulling out my hair and I feel it ripping from my skull with each stroke as the bristles set every last nerve endings on my scalp on fire. I stopped speaking. At some point I agreed that I had sister with children (I’m an only child). I don’t know why. I just wanted to leave and wasn’t up to clarifying anything about my life. OUCH! The curling iron gets thrust into the bottom of my eye socket. Finally she slaps something on my hair that causes each remaining strand to stick to my head. The colorist and stylist practically cheer, “this is a GREAT look! IT’S A TRANSFORMATION!” then practically high five each other while I’m just silently shuddering while thinking “a transformation into what?” I ask myself, “what would Anna do?” Say something. “What would Rita do?” Say something. “What would Beth do?” Not cause ripples and get out of there as quickly as possible.

We’re over the three hour mark when I go to pay. The price tag is $100 MORE than what I pay for my stylist. Without getting into how much I pay in general, let me say that $100 MORE is a lot of money – like, I could buy a small TV lot of money. Like, I could take my tap classes for almost half a year ever single week lot of money. Like, I could walk out and start shaking because I want to vomit out my insides lot of money. OR like I could have gotten almost half a year of Super Cuts haircuts kind of money. And my hair, the hair that’s left that wasn’t unceremoniously jerked from my head, is just sticking to my face and I did the only thing I could do, I FREAKED OUT. Granted, it was a quiet freak out and I contained it in the car, but I couldn’t stop (or drive) for a long time while I tried to pull my shit together over a haircut.

What I learned? To be more flexible in working out my schedule with Kim. Going in another day at a different time is OK.

What I developed? A new and serious belleh phobia.

Belleh.

Christmas 1975

Christmas 1975
Originally uploaded by Big Blue Mess

I don't remember many Christmas' - just flitters of images - heading to my aunt's house to be with the rest of the family - the children's table at Grandbuddi's - cranberry "sauce" making that sickening sucking sound as it fell out of the can - dressing up stick people using leaves and monkey grass to pass the time, because I'd left my tried and true toys at home. But I remember this Christmas - the day I turned eight.

Mom let me spend the night on the couch and I absolutely couldn't sleep. Every couple of hours I'd barge into her room and ask "is it time?" and of course, on days like those, time drags and it's almost never time, so I'd make attempts at settling down while staring at the Christmas tree and trying to discern in the dark what new presents had appeared since I'd fallen asleep. It was around 6am when it was finally "time" and I was bouncing off the walls, I couldn't contain my excitement, because that was the year I got the tent (it's on the floor near the legs of the table) and it was quite possibly the best present Santa ever brought (with the exception of the chemistry set, which may have also made its appearance that year - fortunately my parents didn't take that "parental supervision" warning seriously - many mispent adventures could have come to a crashing halt had they read the label).

Honestly though, this tent I loved for years - it made for a great makeshift clubhouse (better if it was set-up in winter, because it was rated for the mountains - not so great in a Texas summer) and came in handy for all the camping I did in Girl Scouts. I loved that thing until it fell apart and I haven't had one since. (Well, that has more to do with the fact that I refuse to sleep on the hard cold ground anymore; I've been sissified.)

The thing I love about the photo, is it's one of those that's really "me" on Christmas in the morning. It captures how I feel about Christmas and my birthday - the excitement of the day - the joy of being around family and friends and the fact that I wouldn't know a brush in the morning if it came out and groomed me. (Thankfully, I met my friend Ernie the next year and he made it his personal mission to comb my hair and fix my barrettes so I'd be presentable at school.)

At this moment, I'm in my flannel jammies looking disheveled and trying very hard not to run into the bedroom to wake up Jay by asking, "is it time?" because I can see those presents out there winking at me and I know among them is a treasure.

Memories of Beth

The wedding wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be; in fact, I guess it wasn’t even bad at all. I was expecting a monster truck rally, but instead was treated to a lovely traditional Greek Orthodox ceremony. Still, I would have preferred a monster truck rally - more stories.

My best friend, Miss 4th-6th Grade, was there. Yes, I like to mark the Best Friend title by the years the person occupied the position. She was the Matron of Honor. Is Matron right? It looks wrong there, but ok… Anyway, she pulled me aside at one point and began a sentence with “Do you know what I remember about Beth?”

Oh God.

These types of questions are rarely good for me, because they’re usually unflattering and almost always end with me leaving a wake of destruction, people losing property (heirlooms, prized toys, whatever) or just simply me freaking out and possibly instigating all sorts of badness. It’s never me doing something cute, saying something precocious or saving puppies. It’s ALWAYS bad. (This is why it’s better I don’t have kids.)

Some examples - Where you might have played “Superstar”, I played “Heckler”. Yes, I’d boo and hiss until you were too embarrassed to stand in front of the family and sing. You played “House” (and not the surly doctor version who spends 45 minutes diagnosing people incorrectly and somehow avoids losing his job on a weekly basis), but the sweet role-playing version where you broke out the baby dolls. Well, I played “Slum Lord” and divided the house up into apartment units – you were expected to get your rent in on time and oh please, I was not fixing anything. Also, trust me when I say the best property was either the bathroom (access to water and a working toilet) or the kitchen (if you liked to do things like eat or have access to the outdoors). My idea of “School” involved strict lesson plans (that I wrote up and recently found - that was personally embarrassing) and began with roll call. Oh, and I did assign homework – typically math because I wasn’t big on English (some things never change). I was an only child, living with a newly single parent and I was determined to make the same tired old games more interesting.

Of course, if you were just set on being around smart and cute in my family, you really had to go to my cousin Tony. If you wanted someone to stomp your favorite toy, I was your girl - the heavy-handed family juggernaut. The kid your adult friends would try to avoid by leaving you off invitations. You know the sort.

So, needless to say I hate questions like that, because I like to pretend that I was actually sweet, adorable and fun to be around. I’m building “new” memories to help me through my adult years.

She finally answered her question. “I remember Beth at the playground when we used to hide under the jungle gym.” Wonderful. I remember that, too and while it almost sounds sweet, it wasn’t. It was me dragging out all of my Mom’s Cosmopolitans (the most risqué magazine I’d seen in my life) and flipping through the pages. Great, Miss 4th-6th Grade remembers me as the soft porn peddler. I hinted at this memory and she blushed a little and said, “well, yes” that’s what she remembered, too.

I bet you thought there would be a twist where this girl remembered something nice or sweet. Sorry, it’s not that kind of story. These “memories” never end that way.
I think if anything, this wedding taught me something very important – avoid people who’ve known me for too long or maybe the lesson is never let old friends around people you’ve just met – something like that. I’ll work out the details as I dodge questions involving memories of me.

New Understandings

Scott posed the following question to his readers about a month ago:

That brings up my question, is there something someone said to you, or that you heard at some point, that opened up your eyes and made it possible
for you to achieve a new understanding or to change some behavior that was holding you back?

I've given this some thought and seeing that there has been a lull in my writing pending an event I'd rather be dragged across rusty nails than attend, I thought I'd tackle this question and answer by way of a long winded story.

When I graduated from high school, I had a few choices for colleges, but thanks to limited funds and even more limited brain power (darn you Harvard for shunning me - I know you're looking back and regetting that slight) the road map to a degree was fairly clear - I lived in Austin, I would go to the University of Texas - just like everyone else. The problem was that even with the promise of 50,000 students, I didn't want to see another single soul from my high school. And honestly 50,000 students spread 40 acres just wasn't big enough. I needed a break. I needed fresh faces and a fresh start.

My best friend at the time had heard of some small school out in East Texas called Stephen F. Austin State Univerisity and since I didn't much care to think on my own, and considering she was one of the two people I could stomach, the decision was made. I was going to be an East Texas girl.

There was one small hitch, though; I wasn't a small town girl and my only encounter with a small town was when we'd go down the road to Buda to pick through the antique stores. You see, I was born in the Greater Dallas Metroplex. Big D. (God Bless Tom Landry and the Cowboys). All of my family was from Dallas and when we decided to pick up roots, we moved to the quaint little town of Austin - the liberal center of Texas. This is my legacy or my inheritance or something along those lines. My idea of a small town was about 1/2 a million people (something Austin used to be back in the day) and there I was heading to a town of about 28,000 - almost half the size of the University of Texas.

The first day we drove through town and I set foot on campus, I literally broke down and cried. In fact, I made it a regular routine, much to the chagrin of my roommate, of bawling every single day after class for a couple of weeks. I knew I'd made one serious mistake and really, the wretched little twerps I went to high school with were surely not as bad as this backwards hell town.

I mean, there I was in the conservative Bible belt of the state where:

• despite the overturn of the Texas Blue Laws, you couldn't find a single place open on a Sunday
• there really was a Second Baptist Church (I just thought First Baptists liked the First title and had no clue that there could be a Second. Which begs the question as to whether there's a third and honestly, what minority sunk so low they couldn't go to one of the other two?)
• you rarely found a person of color - the city was segregated - my take was that this was more out of habit than anything else, but you could feel it - this freaked me out, because I personally asked to be bussed to my school in Austin and was able to do so because whites were a minority - and I was put in situations in East Texas where clerks refused to help the minority who was clearly there before me - there's nothing more awkward than one person giving you the "hurry up, let me check you out" face while the other is giving you a look that says "please, don't make a scene"
• While the city was "wet", thanks to a huge turn out at the polls from the students , you still had to have a membership to get alcohol; you still do
• a good time was cruising the Dairy Queen (I'm totally not kidding on this point - I got sucked into it once out of boredom - it's what you do when there's nothing to shoot and no one to have sex with - you say "hell, let's cruise the DQ" and trust me when I say I like both shooting and sex... beats the hell out of another drive by a fast food chain)
• the FIRST concert I went to was in the County Expo Center and it was washed-up Joe King Carrasco with his one hit song from the 80's, Ozzy Osbourne was kept from performing in the area, and Sting (who was in the middle of his Dream of the Blue Turtles tour) was thought to be unpopular with the kids - however, our school did book Bob Hope to appear - thankfully, he cancelled
• most of the kids came from small towns - and we completely didn't get each other on some things and I was digging my heels in, because I was dead set against trying

... and frankly it felt like I completely missed going to college and had managed to fall into the 13th grade.

Plus, I have this one small problem that trips me up on occasion. I can be amazingly classist and arrogant when I'm in the wrong mood - and while some of that is where I was raised, some of that is also because, like everyone else, I can be a big jerk.

So, there I was hating just about EVERYTHING and feeling completely isolated in a sea of gator wrestling hillbillies and I was stuck there. My escape was becoming overly active in school activities. By my sophomore year, I was in charge of bringing speakers to campus and while I was digging the fact that I got to do things like ride in a car with Bobby Seale for well over an hour listening to his stories, I really wasn't quite over myself.

The day came when I was in my weekly conference with my advisor and griping up a beautiful storm about the folks on my speaker's committee. I hated them, every meeting was contentious and I was letting her know my exact thoughts on redneck conservative toothless hillbillies that I had to stomach weekly just to bring some decent speakers to this campus. I'm sure I was in rare form as I spewed out every vile thing I could think of regarding why I hated the small minded kids that I had to lead, the tiny little hick town I had to live in and how much I resented all of it. (That's what she was there for - to counsel and get us all back on track and at this point, she was used to the rhythm of our weekly little tete-a-tetes. The joys of advising 20 year olds.)

And this woman, Beverly Farmer, the calmest, smartest, kindest saint of an advisor said, "Beth, you don't have to like everyone you meet, but you need to learn to appreciate what other people can contribute."

And while that is seemingly very simple and obvious, it was eye-opening to me. I had never thought about most of these folks as being able to contribute - I saw their accents, their upbringing, and how every meeting was a battle. Everything about them embodied all of my young adult anger and how they weren't "Austin" - I didn't see that they also had good ideas and contributions and they really weren't trying to work in opposition to me or our goals for the committee (well, maybe the one time I told them NOT to give certain questions posed by students and written on index cards to Dr. Ruth when she was on campus, and they heard "give Dr. Ruth all the questions about deviant behavior, particularly bestiality please" - maybe that time).

At the end of the year there was an award ceremony to acknowledge the various committees (there were eight at the time) for the activities and events they brought to the campus. One award, "Committee of the Year", was given to the group that worked the best together as a team and Ideas and Issues (my gang) were the proud recipients that year... all because of one moment in one room with one very smart woman - and a little work on my part to learn to appreciate people. Just an aside, no other committee won that award for several years; they didn't meet the standards and the day Beverly told me that, I puffed up with pride as she laughed. Damn, we were a solid team.

That was my last year there and the day I left, I cried as hard as the day I got there. I was already missing my town, my people, my school because I truly learned to appreciate them for what they were and what they had to offer; we were no longer in opposition. To this day, I wish I'd graduated from SFA.

What I learned in Beverly's office is something I still work on today - trying to see past the superficial and see people for who they are and appreciate their value; it's not always easy.

Oh, and when I did get to UT with it's 50,000 students thinking that I wouldn't see a single soul I knew thanks to being an upper classman, I walked into my first class and two folks from high school plopped down next to me in a class of over 200. I didn't like them in high school, but there again I decided to drop my guard and ended up with two new friends.

What I Did…

…on my Spring Vacation by Beth.

Jay and I have been in Vegas the past few days, visiting with friends, seeing Cirque du Soleil’s “O”, taking a helicopter tour of the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon, oh yeah, and after 7 ½ years of dating we got married or more precisely “hitched” in keeping with the name of our wedding package “Let’s Get Hitched!” We are nothing, if not tasteful. I’m sad to say that Elvis did not sing to us nor did we get married on the bridge of the Enterprise (I was really pushing for the Enterprise, but there’s always hope for vow renewal and we did get to have lunch at Quark’s and got chatted up by a Klingon so it wasn’t a complete wash). I even came away with one of my souvenir prizes – a t-shirt (that I can never wear out of the house) that reads “I’m with illogical” complete with arrow. How can you not love the nerdiness of it?

I’ll just make my way down the list:
Cirque du Soleil’s “O” – it was both beautiful and surreal. I can’t really add much else to it other than to say that if you get a chance to see a Cirque du Soleil performance, you should take advantage of it. Of course, my favorite part of the Cirque du Soleil story was the shop dedicated to the show and the over eager clerk, Roger. Roger was chatty, gregarious and quite simply outrageous – the kind of guy who can pull off a pompadour. He filled us with all sorts of factoids (the pool in “O” is 26 ft. deep and the high dive was 63 feet above the water). He told us about the other shows, his friends who perform, his family in Austin and then made calls to get times and costs for other shows. Roger then took me aside to show me a few of the other Cirque du Soleil shows that are currently being worked on for other cities. The one opening in New York this winter is called “Wintuk”.

The wedding – well, the day of the wedding, we had to pick up our license in downtown Vegas. Graceful me fell into the cab – I won’t even try to explain what I thought I was doing, but in I fell dragging my leg along the step. Let’s just say I’m still sporting a purple leg shiner and much ice was involved to get the swelling down before the wedding. (Since I’m not someone who bruises easily, I’ve managed to turn my whining about it into quite a show. I know Jay can’t get enough of me pointing it out. I may have to wake him shortly to show him that yes, it’s still there winking at him.) As you make your way to the courthouse, you run the gauntlet of pamphlet handlers and street carnies (for lack of a better description) – they yell at you, get in your path and try to get you to stop and use whatever service they’re hocking. They’re adorable and if I ever need to rent a motel by the hour, they’ll be my first stop.

Vin, the limo driver, picked us up in a white stretch limo. (Hey, we travel in style.) We get there and leap on the marriage conveyer belt only this one was moving a bit slow. According to Vin we were his first pick-up of the day. In about 10 minutes we got thrown in, marched down the aisle, married and had pictures taken before Vin ran out the door to take us back to the hotel. I think we spent more time in the limo than in the “chapel”.

The next day was the helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon with a champagne lunch. Off we head to our little helicopter with the least chatty of all the pilots as six helicopters prepare to take off. I was seated next to a nice gal from Illinois, Pukey McBarfsalot who immediately reached over and grabbed one of the two barf bags she used along the trip. I spent 45 minutes worried about when she was going to blow and couldn’t get lost in the terrain. Then finally, around the Hoover Dam it happened and I spent the next few minutes wondering if that particular smell was going to start a chain reaction while watching her out of the corner of my eye take gentle swipes at her mouth. Trust me, the air in the helicopter can’t blow on you hard enough.

Thank GOD we landed. I went the opposite way of Pukey to enjoy the sites I’d missed on the descent. We had our light lunch, but I didn’t eat that much since I was worried about Pukey’s powers of persuasion. Of course, Pukey ate a lot of her lunch which made me grumble – good idea there, go back up on a full stomach Princess Motion Sickness. At least she took the peppermint. Then back to the helicopter we went… and she reached for her second bag. Jay and I had switched seats so I had my face plastered against the glass with the air blowing directly on me. Jay later pointed out that she didn’t need the 3rd bag her friend provided – may small wonders never cease. Overall though, the tour was amazing and beautiful – something I wouldn’t mind repeating on say a private helicopter.

Yesterday morning we headed to the airport to the tunes of Boney M’s “Rasputin” – I never heard of this Australian sensation and they’re now hands down my new cheesy favorite “Ra ra Rasputin Russia’s greatest love machine” – I mean, how could you go wrong with lyrics like that? I should have given the cabby a larger tip for introducing us to this fine band. Forget Dylan, Guthrie, Marley – just sit back and enjoy.

…and that was our Spring vacation.

The Estate Sale

Last week we all got together at 6am to hock Mom’s things. My aunt and cousin had put in hundreds of hours to have what one dealer later called “one of the best estate sales I’ve ever been to” – with everything displayed and priced. The estate sale started at 7am, but by 6:30 cars were lining the cul-de-sac literally 3 cars deep. There’s nothing quite like peeking out the window to see that many cars aimed menacingly at your house.

We all agreed that we couldn’t make any last minute runs to our cars to put away those things we decided not to sell. At 7 we opened the garage, which threw off a bunch of the dealers who were stationed at the door. As soon as the crowd started moving to the garage, my aunt came through the front door thinking the path was clear to make it to her car. People stopped mid-step once they heard that front door and literally ran into the house shouting, “I was here FIRST!”

Being "first" may matter at a blue light special, but you’re shopping at a house. I warily applaud your first-ness. Kendra, bless her naïve heart, agreed to be the cashier and was immediately swarmed as a line formed through the living room and into the kitchen. People were shoving each other and grabbing items from other people’s hands. Early on, Kendra tried to ask my aunt a question about a price only to be told by an irritated “customer”, “she was helping ME first!” Right, go on with your bad first-ness. One of the dealers made sure Kendra knew that he strongly disapproved of the way Mom’s jewelry was displayed, “this should be laid out under good lighting so we can see it all better.” Yes, when we open up our estate store we’ll gladly design it to YOUR specifications. We live to make sure you’re having a more pleasant garage sale shopping experience. Please fill out our survey. Call this 1-800 number and you could win a rousing round of golf clapping.

I guess posting “estate sale” in the classifieds causes the dealers jerkosterone levels to rise, thankfully they slowly congo-ed away with their finds to hit the next sale. Around 9 the sane people appeared – those people just casually poking around, sharing stories and picking up their finds as if they were treasures. Our best shoppers of the day were the little girls who got into Mom’s collection of crane game toys and loved and squeezed on them until their parents handed over a quarter. (My Mom was AMAZING at the crane game and always had tons of little stuffed animals lying around.)

We closed up shop around 5 when one last nut finally found the exit. There’s going to be a repeat of the sale soon to hopefully get a little more out, but we did really well – all thanks to a lot of hard work put in by my aunt and cousin. I can’t possibly thank them enough. Also, big thanks to Kendra for being the eye of the shopping storm.

Vision Problems

There are days, at least in my world, where you wake up and say “today I’m staying home.” As Kati once said, “you have a vision problem – you just don’t see yourself at work.” This is one of those stories on one of those days (and I probably worked for Kati then).

I woke up that morning and realized the whole work thing just wasn’t going to happen for me. The barometric pressure was off, the sky was a little too cloudy or maybe it was just a little too cold, I don’t remember – I just knew I wasn’t getting out of my pajamas. I made the call early before anyone got to work while my voice was still hoarse enough to almost sound passable and then I was home free.

I celebrated by unleashing the ferrets for a celebratory romp through the apartment. No one enjoys a good day of hooky more than a ferret. If you’ve never had a ferret, then you should know they embrace the word “fun” and “mischief” and it’s only amplified by the size of your “business” of ferrets (where dogs cling to words like happy and loyal and cats waiver some place between calculated indifference and dominance over their loathsome human subjects). A newly freed ferret, especially if they have a ferret companion, immediately gets to work with bouncing, scampering and working on their booty (which is what most people think of as a black hole – the place keys, shoes and other small objects go to rest – if you think your items disappeared into a black hole, it didn’t, you’ve got ferrets). After a half hour’s hard work, the bandits suddenly vanish and magically reappear nestled in your dresser on top of all your t-shirts. (Edit: Jay helped me realize I wasn't clear on what turned up in your drawers - it's ferrets - your missing stuff is likely behind the stove or underneath the couch.)

That particular morning, my two bounded off while I sat in my well loved jammies, hair sticking straight up watching TV. There was a LOUD knock at the door. I stood on my tip-toes and looked out the peep hole and at the end of my walkway some distance away was a police officer. Ok, sure I was truant from work but come on, cut a girl some slack. When I opened the door a second officer leapt around from the side; he had been hidden in front of my neighbor’s door. HONESTLY! I’ll go to work.

“Ma’am, we got a call from 911 at this residence.” Uhhh… “no, I didn’t call 911”.
The guy chatted away with his shoulder, “dispatch, can you call that number back.” I waited, they waited and no ringing came from my apartment.
“Ma’am is there anyone in the apartment with you?” My roommate was and she was in the shower.

A ferret bounded out the door to say hello. I grabbed her up and told the officers I’d check on the phone. When I went to my roommate’s room I found her phone off the hook and the cord stretching towards the bed. FERRETS!

I returned, now holding both Rogue & Gambit (hey, I don’t judge your pet’s names). “I’m sorry officers, but I think my ferrets hit the fast dial for 911 while trying to hide the phone.” Two very blank completely un-amused faces glared back at me. “I’m really sorry?” as I tried to appear apologetic but was sort of having a little private snicker on the inside. The two officers didn’t say another word and walked away. They doubtlessly regretted not having called in with their own vision problem.

Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed more peaceful days off from work.

(In memory of some fine banditos: Rogue, Gambit, Applejuice, Possum, K-Nack, Max and Beckett.)
Note: No good stewing Becketts were actually harmed.

The Will

I’ve carefully avoided going through my Mom’s thing up until now – it’s more from a sense of guilt that “it’s not mine” than any anticipated dread over the memories of my Mom. I even have her purse in my spare room that I haven’t gone through, yet because it’s hers and I was raised not to dig through her stuff. (Well, eventually the lessons kicked in. There might have been a period from say around 5-12 when everything she had was fair game.) Most of the cash she had when she passed away still sits in her wallet and it will likely sit there for awhile longer; it’s not my money.

As I went through her papers last week, I found a copy of my great-grandfather’s will. This will is infamous in our family, because this is the will that ultimately determined the fortunes of my grandmother and her two brothers.

The story goes that on my great-grandfather’s deathbed, the oldest son approached my great-grandfather along with his brother and convinced him to cut my grandmother out of the will. The argument supposedly went that my grandfather would squander all of the money. Now my grandfather’s family was actually of a higher class than my grandmother’s, according to the story, but that fact was carefully brushed aside.

When my great-grandfather passed away, my great-uncles walked away with a considerable amount of cash and other assets while my grandmother got the family house. Now, the oldest son was a shrewd man and eventually convinced his brother, who had joined the Navy to fight in WWII, that it would be better if he gave him all of his inheritance “in case something happened”. This would save the family the trouble of having the money tied up in litigation should anything happen to my uncle. They agreed that the money would be turned back over once my uncle returned safely from WWII. My great uncle returned safely and never saw his share again.

I don’t want to give the impression that the oldest son wasn’t generous a man. During the time that I knew him, he’d swing by in one of his many Cadillacs to take my grandmother out to eat and buy her groceries on occasion. He even offered to help out his brother, who had fallen on hard times, by offering to purchase one of his three sons. (His own son needed a playmate.) You couldn’t find a more giving man.

Looking at the copy of that will caused many of those family stories to bubble to the surface and I couldn’t help but think “this is THE will – I’m actually holding THE will”. I handed it to my aunt. I didn’t want to read it. It may change the truths about our family that I’ve grown up with and those legends have been fun. Maybe fun in a dysfunctional Faulkner family sense, but they are truly the stories that form the foundation of our family’s legends.

As an aside, many terrible things happened in my great-uncle’s family, which are fairly tragic and not bloggable. The lesson I’ve always taken away is that money will never buy you happiness, but it can sure buy you some nice cars, big houses and great vacations… and for some people that’s enough.

Self Discovery

If I had tags, this would be tagged “old story”. If I weren’t lazy, I’d have a link to my working guest book, too. As Kurt Vonnegut says, “So it goes.”

Have you ever wondered how you would react in a specific situation? Would you face down the gunman threatening the room? Would you stand up for the woman being told she had to move to the back of the bus? Beat up the schoolyard bully? Walk up to George Takei and say, “I loved you most right after Scotty and Spock. Hey, number three ain’t bad!” If your mom opened the hotel room door for a stranger who was banging on it at 2am, would you stand by her side or head to the bathroom and lock the door? Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m a natural born coward. I wouldn’t do any of that and I did lock myself in the bathroom. Hey, if Mom wants to take her chances on strangers claiming “it’s Bernard” (like we knew a Bernard) at 2am in the morning, well she’s on her own. For the record, the door in that bathroom was pretty solid, however the window was kind of small; it would have taken some time to wiggle out of there. I think the door would have held which would have bought me precious time if the need to shimmy through it had arisen.

A long time ago I was in Manhattan throwing myself another pity party that required Jerry’s attendance, which meant I crashed at his place and sulked. Jerry had to go to work so he handed me the keys to the place and said, “I don’t want to see you when I get back. Go out into the city. Go explore. Don’t sit here and watch TV all day.” Way to ruin a perfectly good trip, Jers.

I headed towards the subway armed with crib notes. You really shouldn’t walk around with a big map in New York according to the natives. I descended the stairs to the subway and started heading downtown. This was my first hiccup. See, as a Texan one truth is that downtown is where all the big buildings are – it’s where everything is. We don’t have an “uptown”. Uptown is North Austin and I didn’t need to go to North Austin or to Albany for that matter. As the train lurched along I started seeing Bleecker and Canal (ok, Manhattan know-it-alls, if you’re reading that critically and saying “well yeah, if you go from one end to the other and take the L then transfer to the F” I’m giving you the finger). I realized I was heading to China Town and away from the area I needed to get to. I was going “downtown” and I really did need “uptown”. As you know, Manhattan is a few short miles filled with big buildings and one large park.

I finally arrive at the right stop and head to the MoMA. The whole time I’m thinking about all the filming that takes place in New York and wondering if I’d see anything going on. Since I’m me, I was also thinking about how people get discovered on the street. What would I do if I were “discovered”?

I entered the MoMA and prepared to take my big tour. The “Look, See I Can Leave the Apartment” tour to prove to Jerry I was independent. (All of my friends know better.) As I’m milling in the lobby area an older gentleman approaches me. He asks if I’m part of his student film group here to take a tour of the museum. He goes on to tell me that he made documentaries and don’t I have the loveliest cheekbones. He could possibly use me in a movie. My head came plummeting back down out of the clouds. What? Me, in your movie? He handed me his card. Great, I could be in his porn. I bet I have nice cheekbones. Take a look at my mouth while you’re at it, too. He wanted to meet up with me later and asked for my phone number. Of course, being clever I made one up. Yes, off the top of my head I just started spilling out numbers and realized “CRAP! That’s Mom’s number.” That’s when I had to do some damage control and said something clever like, “oh, did I say 2, I meant 3.” I’m so foxy. If Anna had been there she would have rolled her eyes at my lame attempt to correct the number and likely cuffed me in the back of my head. See, I have a disability. I’m incapable of lying in a convincing manner.

After some moments I made a lame excuse and ran. I spent the rest of the exhibit ducking every so often. In fact, except for a Monet, I can’t tell you what I saw. Ok, that’s a lie, I saw a remarkable scribble exhibit. Write a cursive “e” and then repeat it 100 times – in crayola, chalk, pen, paint and then put it on canvas, paper, a chalk board, etc. Who knew how artistic the cursive “e” could be? I didn’t. Still don’t. That’s why nice people don’t take me out to nice things.

Here’s what I learned about myself that day. I’m far too cynical to be discovered. I know deep in my soul that if I were ever “discovered” it wouldn’t be a magical moment – limousines, champagne and hanging out with some guy named Goldwyn. It would be some pervy porn director preying on tourists in a museum on a day I just wanted to sulk in an apartment and watch TV.

The Claw

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

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

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

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

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

Death to the Ice Cream Man

Right now I'm churning out the old stories to get them out there, to play with the website in general and in hopes something newer and fresher will strike me.

Around the age of 5 I had a constant companion in the form of a short, blackish-gray haired bundle of fur named Smokey. I actually don't remember Smokey that much these days. I only have one clear image and one distinct sound of her forever burned into my memory.

We lived in a trailer park on the edge of a big city. The place was surrounded by open fields, the streets were barely paved, people hung their clothes out on a line to dry and sometimes you'd find a gutted deer carcass on the lawn or even a burned out mobile home where someone had tried to scam the insurance company. It was a different place in the sense that I've never lived anywhere like in since, but the people were generally nice and there was the ice cream man who lived up the street. Everyone loved the ice cream man especially us children who would go to his house after he finished his route and have our sweet-tooth needs accomodated at all hours of the day.

That takes us to that day with that memory and that sound. My friends and I were loitering on the street like good impish wastrels do without a care in the world. Since this community was in the middle of no where there wasn't any traffic or need to worry about the kids on the streets. It wasn't quite your idyllic 1950's setting but it was good enough. Around the corner came the ice cream man, driving slowly with that ice cream jingle which lures everyone to the streets tunelessly playing away and my dog sleeping in the middle of the road. That's the one sound and one image I'll always carry about my dog; it was tragic and it was terribly sad. My mom marched up the street later that night to have the man come apologize to me, but the only thing he could say was "I'm not paying for that dog." He didn't say "I'm sorry" or "I didn't see her." That night, my Dad buried her in the field beneath a large rock and we said good bye to my first dog.

Now, I could end this story here, but my writing is about humor and it's honestly not the end of the story.

I was motivated by my burning hatred of the ice cream man, that once trusted friend who dispensed cold sweet goods from the back of his truck. Since there were other children with me that day who witnessed the same thing, I soon had my army of ice cream man hating urchins. Our mission: Kill the ice cream man! Our only hold-back, we were all aged 5 and younger and were heavly influenced by the physical laws of the Loony Toons.

Together, my friend Rudy and I schemed. We knew the man had to die and we knew that in his death the ice cream truck had to burst open freeing all the helpless fudgesicles and other ice cream goodies. We tossed around well thought up ideas like slipping popsicles into his pocket, but that just made him cold and the truck didn't open up so we had to move on. Tires slipped on ice, so maybe ice cream under the tires. Now that sounded promising, but we were reliant on allowances and you couldn't really justify to your parents "I need to buy 4 ice creams to kill the ice cream man, so can I plleeaasseee have the money?" That left us with just the one plan that didn't rely on money so off we charged into the neighboring fields.

Fortunately for our plan, the grass had recently been cut. Rudy, his sister Sally and I pulled handful after handful of mowed grass out into the street making a large grass hump. We then set about waiting for the ice cream man. His truck eventually loomed on the horizon as he slowly made his way to our road hump of death and then it just as slowly ran over our grass clippings. CURSES! The hump just wasn't enough to cause the truck to flip thus killing the ice cream man and exposing all the sweets inside his truck. We learned that day that some tasks were too big for 5 year old minds and we had a very valuable lesson in physics, I might add. I'm sure if Acme had created the grass clippings and if Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote had been involved... well... I suppose we'd have the same result come to think of it, because their schemes never quite worked out for them either.

... and that's how and why I tried to kill the ice cream man ...

That Really Bad Date

I’m going to add just one more story for the day. Mind you, this is all practice and I personally have a lot of work and thought to put into what I’m going to be doing here...

This story is for Lori. Although, I don’t think it’s necessarily one of her favorites, I think it made the list.

Once upon a time, a long time ago before I met Jay, I had terrible taste in men. Feeling unloved, un-dateable and generally throwing huge low self-esteem pity parties I would go out with almost anyone. My thought was give people a chance and you may at the very least make a friend. So, when the guy in my apartment complex asked me out, I said sure, what the hell. The warning signs were there and unheeded. I mean, climbing the rock facing of the apartments while hooked into the stairwell railing was err… exhilarating? Exciting? Different? And who didn’t have primer paint at the ready to splash on their car to keep it that fresh dull grey?

The date was supposed to be a quick trip to some coffee house for a chat. It seemed safe enough so I was game. Come date time where the guy asked me to drive, I’m guessing because he didn’t want to chance ruining the freshly painted layer of primer on his car, he asks if he can drive my car. Sure. I wasn’t keen on it, the car was new then, but sometimes I’m downright stupid when it comes to needing to say “no”. Off we go down the road to the coffee house when he suggests an alternate destination. EXCITING! “Beth, would you mind if we go to my AA meeting. I missed it this week.” Ugh. Sure. How can I deny someone their right to sobriety?

We arrive at the meeting where everyone is quite supportive, sitting in a circle telling about their latest obstacles to staying sober. Here’s where you need to know something about me. I don’t really drink. Being around a grandmother who passed out after dropping a lit cigarette and a healthy amount of alcohol on your bed and you start thinking “eh, drinking… not so much my thing”. I don’t condemn it, I just don’t overindulge and if I do, it’s so rare that it necessitates stories of their very own. So, there I am having been sober for probably 25 years and not a token or a sponsor to applaud me listening to these people's stories.

If you have been to an AA meeting, you know one thing is true it’s not like the movies. People’s lives aren’t neatly wrapped up in a heart-warming speech. They tell long winding stories that abruptly end then pat each other on the backs and say thank you. I sat, I listened and I was thankful that I had very different problems that didn’t involve group support or speaking in public. At the end, one of the members came up to me and gave me a hug. He expressed how nice it was to have me and how he hoped to see me in the future. I thanked him and basically said “I doubt it,” which made the man step back, look at me sweetly and say “you come back when you’re ready.” At this point what could I do? If I declared “I’m not a drunk!” they would have felt sorry for the young girl in denial so I smiled and nodded at the man then headed for the car.

Back at the car my date suggests that movies might be more fun than coffee. Sure. Although, I’m thinking brain rot would be more fun, too. Off we go to the movies. I can’t tell you what we saw. I only remember one little bit from our conversation. My date informed me he was a twin. I asked, “are you fraternal twins or identical?” He looked at me a bit perplexed so I repeated the question. Still I got no answer. I finally restated the question, “do you two look alike?” He smiled and said “yeah, he looks like me.” Thinking I was funny (a mistake I’ve made many times in my life) I asked “are you sure you don’t look like him?” That caused more eyebrow furrowing and that confused expression to return.

We finally make it back to the apartment and he asks if he can come in. Sure. My friend Tammy was spending the night and I’d alerted her that the freak who climbed the apartment walls and painted his car with primer was taking me out and asked her if she could be around. My date then made for my refrigerator, helped himself to my food and then shortly thereafter I helped him out the door. The date was thankfully over.

That’s my dating story. When I look back at just how stupid it was, I can’t help but being thankful that I have Jay.