Category Archives: Friends

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Just an Ordinary Day

Our garage is like almost any garage – kind of ordinary in its rectangular-ness mixed with a hint of boring.  It’s a space where only cars and items that aren’t quite loved enough to hangout inside live.  The occasional yard tool loiters aimlessly against the wall. Every day I come home, open the door and am greeted with the sameness – the blandness.  A life tucked away slowly passing through each season.  I spend as little time as possible there.  No particular reason to linger. Just grab everything from the car, close the door and wait for another day.  Ordinary.

Then came Saturday when I opened the door and found…

Photo Bomb! From left to right: Holt Boggs, Topping Haggerty (Director), Jonathan A. Spear

Closeup! Holt Boggs & Jonathan A. Spear

Ahhh! Magic!

Be sure to look for “Fifi and Mr. Pickles” a short by Topping Haggerty coming to you later this Summer.

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2012 In Review

Here we are at the end of 2012 and what a great year it has been.  While I don’t have a Top 10, I thought I’d run through some of the personal highlights that made this year so great.  Now I fully accept that I may be the only person interested in this, but by golly I’m doing it anyway despite the yawns and alt+tabbing. (Oh, you thought I couldn’t see that did you?)

This year I’ve read more books than I have in awhile and while that number isn’t impressive by any stretch, I still did it and count it towards my personal achievements.  As a person who used to live in books, my past non-reading has been a bit embarrassing.  This week I’ll finish up A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini and then it’s off to Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale.  That only leaves me with a gigantic stack of books (about 2’ high – I have the best intentions) that I’ve been meaning to read for a long while.

I wrote a lot of sketches this year, I got terrific feedback from Esther’s Follies on one I submitted to them, and we had a show that sold out over a three week run.  Fantastic!

I was involved in three film shoots – two were for sketches I had written and the other was for a fellow classmate’s sketch.  I can say that in my shoots, I was surrounded by incredibly amazing people who taught me a great deal.  I’ve learned a lot and hopefully, if we continue to shoot sketches, I’ll become a stronger director.   Right now, I’m more of the, “ummm hey guys like if you could maybe like ummm read the line like this… yeah, ok? Roll sound.  Roll camera.  Scene 1B Take 5. Action.” type.

Behind the scenes for Dunes

Below is my classmate Richard’s sketch “Good Morning” (you’ve gotten to see mine already – time for something new) where I got to play the role of Production Assistant and door slammer extraordinaire.  It turns out I not only have a knack for door slamming, but it’s really quite enjoyable. (Note: I got to slam that door no less than about 20 times.)  Now if I could only spin that into a job.  I know I’d excel.  Maybe move up the door slamming ranks until I became a Slammer Supervisor and allowed to slam two doors at once or maybe a French door on occasion – I mean, if my performance evaluations went well.

(Features many of the cast from our “Moral Compass Rumpus” show and all of the writers.)

I finally used my “big girl” camera and while I’m not entirely amazed by the results, I learned more about it and more about film (yes, yes, I’m a hold out).  Namely, that I may be investing in a DSLR vs. the SLR I have in the future.

Film – Chinese Lanterns – State Fair of Texas 2012

I’ve asked Seth a ton of questions and learned many new things.  Seth endured high school with me and is one of those insanely smart people who kindly puts up (for reasons I don’t understand but appreciate) with a random question a month.  Seth gets nothing in return save the knowledge that I’m kind of an amusing air head and that fuzzy good feeling that comes from helping the hopeless.  This year I’ve learned about topics from Copyright Law to Lomography to purple vs. the light spectrum.  He also tries to encourage me to use my camera. He claims it’s not scary.  I’m supposed to go on a photo stroll.  Yes, I will get on that. You can see Seth’s amazing photos here.

I’ve had some great times with some great friends despite April’s attempt to try and bump me off.  She’s now got me in a regular walking group.  I think her diabolical new plan is to make my heart explode.  In the last two months I’ve walked further and climbed higher than I have in a long time.  New muscles reintroduced themselves to me by way of “I can’t move my legs”.  Muscles like hip flexors said their hellos. Hey guys, where have you been?  Ouch.

I look forward to 2013.

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He Kindly Stopped for Me

I am descended from a long line of martyrs.  Now, you might be thinking the lion snack, pyre kindle, rock dodger sort, but you’d be mistaken.  See, I’ve long suspected my family actually survived through the centuries by being fabulous finger pointers.  “Oh, you’re looking for a witch?  Have you spoken with Goody Johnson?  No reason.  I’m just saying there may be naked devil frolicking.  Hey, since her property is right next to mine and she doesn’t look like a pond floater to me, if you catch my drift, I was thinking you know maybe we could just add that to our lands.  Hey, did I mention the frolicking and the warts? I think there was cavorting!”  In fact, all of my friends know that if they ever need someone to bury the body, they should definitely not include me due to my finger-pointing genetics.  Even If I wanted to keep their secret, my DNA would kick in and the next thing you know I’d be at the local sheriff’s office spilling my guts.  No, we’re more the sort of martyrs with our ever-lengthening faces who believe we were meant to suffer.  It can make the holidays a real hoot.  And while I’m not always like this, I have some glorious moments.

A recent example: I was driving home one night and I suppose the radio wasn’t entertaining enough and the traffic wasn’t particularly challenging, so that allowed for some quality me time. Time to really over think things – to rework reality.  I started picking on myself and it went something like this: “you know, none of your friends parents like you – true story”.  I made a list in my head of all of my friends and their parents – a list that would make what I was saying completely true.  I crawled out on that mental ledge and followed with “you’re kind of unlikeable, there’s probably something wrong with you.”  Now let me say this was up there with the time I called April and declared, “I only have three friends” to which April calmly took a breath and asked about several other people that I hadn’t counted – people I really liked and she was able to negotiate through my very German, “no, that’s an acquaintance”- the “du” vs. “Sie” roadblocks I threw in her way until I came down off of that ledge.  I’m kind of famous for these glorious moments, I’m not so proud to say.  So, as I drove and thought of every parent that disliked me including in-laws, I became smaller and sadder.  This was my narrative I chose to tell myself that evening for no better reason than I was bored.

And then the small part of me that hates to be beaten up rallied. “Julie’s mom doesn’t feel that way. Ern’s parents don’t feel that way. In fact, if you think about it, more of them like you than don’t and the ones who don’t, you’ve always had a “right back atcha’” attitude anyway, so let’s admit we’re being silly.”  I perked back up and recounted the ways that Julie’s mom had shown me over the years that she did still think about me and she did believe I was an ok person.  I used that knowledge to feel ok again.  To feel likeable.  To feel like I wasn’t some friend toad who when introduced to parents was seen as some loathsome and repulsive parasite latched to their beloved kid. (Did I mention I’m very skilled at making myself suffer?)  Those were the people who mattered to me – those incredible, amazing people who I admire and they like me.  I’m ok.

Reminding myself of the real truth, the real story, allowed me to not only feel better about myself, but about the people around me.  And the real story is that Ernie’s parents always ask about me when Ern comes into town.  Julie’s mom follows my blog and was one of the top people to respond to my Facebook posts – something that goes well beyond what my own family does and it’s something that means a lot to me.  And all of that helps me feel connected to my past.

Last week Julie told me that her mom had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  Julie, who is a doctor, explained what that meant for the coming year and then asked if I would write a reminiscence – something her mom could read because she likes my writing.  I had a small meltdown, and then I sat down at 3:30 am the following morning and wrote a small bit that will never do this amazing lady justice or properly express how much she means to me or how incredible I think she is.

Of all the phases in my life – school, graduation, college, marriages, friend’s children being born, this is the one I like absolutely the least.  I want to stomp my feet hard enough or hold my breath long enough so that Death pauses, furrows a brow and says, “you know you’ll just pass out, but I suppose this once because of your moxie and that particular shade of blue on your face, I’ll cry uncle then come back in about 15 years, deal?”  (I basically want Death to be the character from Terry Pratchett’s novels. Relatable with a great fondness for cats.)

Like my aunt and my mom, she’s one of those people I have always assumed would always be there.  That decades from now I would still be hearing stories of her wanderings or hearing her boasting about and celebrating her incredible children and grandchildren. That I would be admiring her beautiful nature photos or the latest art piece she had created.  That wherever the wind stirred the tall grass and gently encouraged the wind chimes into performing a fairy’s chorus that I could smile in the knowledge she was somewhere out there – Monte and Polly at her side.

And quite selfishly, on the 6th anniversary of my mother’s death,  I admit that among the reasons I’m sad is that there will be one less person in this world that thinks I’m ok.

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How April Tried to Kill Me: A “Mostly” True Story

"Big Tex & Me" - courtesy of April

“Big Tex & Me” – photo courtesy of April

Most of you know my friend April – funny, gregarious, willing to do most anything, always there to encourage you and help you realize your own dreams – an adventurous gal, always on the move, diving into the next new thing with verve or gusto or some other adjective that makes you feel a bit lazy. She’s kind-hearted – looking after abandoned people – abandoned pets.  The kind of person that should be dressed in spandex, running effortlessly around in impossibly high heels and a flouncy long cape – her photo always taken from foot level, looking up into her face with Austin’s darkened skyline in the back.

But every hero has a tragic flaw and I’m here to share her darker side.

Our recent adventures began with an innocent question, “When would you like to go to the State Fair?”  The cackle that  followed chilled me to the bone and should have been a warning, but I wasn’t on my game.  This would be the first sign. You see, I trust her. I was also filled with years of nostalgia for the State Fair – countless memories of Mom, of Big Tex, of the Midway and Elsie, yes, Elsie the cow clouded my judgment and a date was set.  “I’ll drive.” The siren’s call of my pending demise sealed this Faustian deal.

Really, eBay is the Best Source for Faustian Deals – FOUR STARS! How could this possibly end badly?

Starship Pegasus – Italy, Tx

The trip to Dallas began innocently enough – sure, there was no radio and we were forced to talk (THE ENTIRE TIME! I mean seriously, I have a handful of anecdotes and you’ve heard them all.  Once you’ve heard them, what am I? I’m just a collection of People magazine headlines). Somewhere around Italy, Tx and likely sometime after I finished regaling April with the highlights of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Total Recall it was suggested we pull off the road to look at a little run-down starship of a restaurant called “The Pegasus”. It was easy to lure me out of the car by playing to my love of all things SciFi with dulcet promises of photo ops.  Before I had time to run, we were besieged by a plague of locusts (or maybe it was just a colony of overly excited grasshoppers, who can keep up?)  The second sign.

We reach Fair Park and it is decided, our first mission should be to locate a Fletcher’s corn dog in all its deep fried corn doggy glory.  It was truly magnificent as only a corn dog from the State Fair could be.  Corn dogs and lemonades in hand, April led me to a comfortable place to sit – a place that was soon quickly overrun by birds of prey and carrions; she squealed with delight as she carefully studied my reaction.  Each bird took wing and carefully sized up the crowd for it’s next prey. The third ominous sign.

212 Feet of Unadulterated Terror

“Let’s go to the Ferris Wheel next,” I suggested.  Did I truly come to this decision on my own?  I’m deathly afraid of heights, but somehow it seemed like everything would be ok if I would just step into the gondola.  I had my camera ready to calm my nerves.  My camera that quickly got tucked away as the Ferris wheel came to a stop at the top and I realized I was trapped in a poorly constructed creaky metal cage – all the while April sat there carefully watching and considering me with a smile on her face.  The fourth sign. We were doomed.

Signs aside – just a quick glimpse into my panic on the Ferris wheel. I had armed myself with my understanding of the physiology of fear and Jay’s words “if you get nervous, just look up”.  Well, about two seconds in, I got nervous and let me just say – there is no “up” when you’re in a covered gondola. There’s only straight out or down. There’s no reasoning, “now Beth, this is a chemical response; you can out think it”. There’s no out thinking abject terror. The best I could do as my heart was pounding was not piddle in public.  Yes, that’s my big win as they kept us hovering at the top of the Ferris wheel for an endless amount of time. Then, I snapped and it happened.  I did the worst thing I could do when I get nervous – I got “funny”, but “funny” in air quotes and I stayed “funny” until they let me out and I wobbled onto the little deck just past the “Exit” sign.  Have you ever seen people trapped by my “funny”?  I have.  I had three of them – two complete strangers and April.  My little victims.  Unafraid of heights, but subjected to long minutes of my terror driven humor.  The only thing I did not do to wipe their “Ferris wheels are FUN” happy looks off their delighted faces was:  I did not say, “oh God, was that a bolt?” because I was in super stressed out mode.  My mantra became: “Don’t you dare piddle.  Don’t you dare say the thing about the bolt.”  Meanwhile, the unmoving gondola creaked and swayed in the breeze.  When we got out of the gondola, our companions said, “I’m glad we had such nice people to ride this with.”  Yeah, I can hear your sarcasm pal.  I’ll “nice” you as soon as I stop clutching the ground. You better run.

Deep Fried Artery Clogging Heaven

Safe on the ground, we meandered around the Fair poking our heads in various buildings, hunting down livestock, concept cars, and other exhibits that caught our fancy.  “We should try something else fried,” because really part of the State Fair experience is the various foods that they’ll drop into an industrial Fry Daddy.  Did I truly come to that heart-clogging decision on my own?  We sampled the chicken fried bacon.  Delicious.  “Beth, you should have the last piece.” Go ahead. Eat it.  I did without a second thought, without so much as a nod to my manners. My Mom’s voice that would say, “do not take the last piece” was completely ignored.  I greedily dragged that last piece through the last smears of Ranch dressing with a noisy grunt.  Mmmm.  My arteries tightened a bit.  Later that night: “Let’s try the Fried Bacon Cinnamon Roll!  You can have the last bite. My arteries tightened a bit more.

I barely escaped the deep fried temptations and did my best to undo all the damage by grabbing a salad and a large bowl of fruit.  Maybe that’s why the gloves had to come off on the drive back.

As we sat in the car heading home  I noticed my jeans were covered with an odd substance.  I had over-stuffed the washer a couple of nights before and chalked it up to soap that hadn’t quite washed off.  It started to irritate my skin and what started out as a humorous, “well, I sure am glad I didn’t wear these at the Fair” became, “I’m trying to pick the material off my skin; it’s really irritating.”  I pitifully whined about the sensation on my legs – annoying myself and I was certain April, even though she had adopted an off-putting cackle with each new complaint. “Describe the sensation,” I imagined her saying.  No new conversation topic was allowed to continue without paying homage to my burning legs. As I tried to pucker the material up and away from my skin, I noticed the denim started tearing.  “I think this soap must be a bit caustic.”  When I got home, I immediately pulled them off.  The fabric was now burned to the tops of my legs; my skin a deep indigo blue.  I popped into a bath to remove the fabric then showed Jay my chemical burns.  “We need new soap!”  The next day I noticed my travel bag had partially melted on our table and there were holes in my pajamas.  Weird.  The long and short of it was that my bag and clothes had inadvertently been sitting in battery acid while in the back of the trunk.  When April said, “here we’ll throw your bag back here” I should have recognized this as one of the many signs.

But I’m here to tell you the despite April’s best efforts, I survived.  April, I want to let you know that from here on, I’ll be watching you.

Disclaimer: When I presented the blog idea to April she agreed I could write it as long as I understood that things really didn’t happen this way. I tried to explain to her that to make it a good story some truths had to be embellished.  So the more boring true version: We went to the fair, we ate some disgustingly bad but delicious food, we saw a great bird show, I panicked on the Ferris wheel, but not before getting really annoying and “funny” and then my jeans, that I wore on the way back home,  really were covered in battery acid and that really smarted. Don’t soak your clothes in battery acid.

I guess I’m not supposed to end the story by mentioning that April forced me to sit in those acid soaked jeans and mocked me on the ride home – but this is “my” story – a “mostly” true story.

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A Message from Keith

In my email this morning – from my friend Keith:

Hi Beth,

As you know, I got braces last week.  What you may not know is how much they cost:  A lot.  I recently realized, however, that not only will these braces benefit me with straightened teeth, but they will also benefit everyone else by making my smile nicer to see.

With that logic, I don’t see how you could deny that these are no longer “my” braces and “my” cost to bear but instead are “our” braces and “our” cost to bear.  Since this affects so many people, I have determined your low, low share is only $100.00.

Please let me know when I can expect the check.

Keith

It’s emails like this that make me glad to have the friends I do. I wrote Keith back and let him know I’d be quoting him. His response was one of disappointment; he had hoped I would either agree to sending a check or sass him. He was prepared! He shared the response he had waiting. It wasn’t bad. I explained trying to match his cleverness would have been rather pointless on my part. I knew I had already been bested without having typed a single word. “I yield, good sir!”

But on a more serious note, you have to admit he did make an excellent point. His smile really is OUR shared burden. So, just let me know if you’re interested in covering my part, since seeing Keith’s new smile will make me happy, and when I’m happy, I write about happy things, which in turn makes you feel much happier. A pay-it-forward situation. And I want you to be happy! :)

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The Evil King

Thanks to my Mom, I loved bugs when I was a kid.  I would pick them up, carry them around, and build little homes for them to live in. If a bug was injured, I’d construct a leaf hospital for them to recuperate comfortably within.  Everyone knows a bug just needs a little leaf roof and leaf walls to regrow a new leg or antennae.  I loved caterpillars, cicadas, grasshoppers, June bugs, worms (is that considered an “insect”?), doodle bugs (which you probably call pill bugs and while I accept that I’m technically wrong, they’re still doodle bugs to me), ants, and spiders.  In fact, the more legs and eyes the better.  My mother taught me to respect their creations and not to be careless – thus, effectively ending my days of kicking over ant hills for fun or squishing the occasional hive. I’d reflect on their hard work and move on.

Unfortunately, along the path to adulthood my relationship with bugs changed.  First, I was swarmed by yellow jackets.  Now, yellow jackets, wasps and mud dobbers must die on sight to make up for their insult.   Fire ants murdered my favorite hamster, Brownie.  All ants were put on notice.  The final straw – too much time with a relative who was not the tidiest of souls. Her silverware drawers, counters, and cabinets were in constant motion.  Things scampered over piles of debris left throughout the house.  It sent me over the edge. I hate bugs.

Now I’ve become THAT woman who leaps on furniture and shrieks like a crazy person at certain bugs.  I’m not proud.  (To save some face, I am still your go-to girl for picking up dead mammals.  The difference being that dead mammals don’t tend to size you up and then fly at your face.)  I also now have a hair-trigger gag reflex for certain bugs – roaches, maggots, too many of anything pulsating in one place… you get the idea.  In fact, the only Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe that will send me out of the room gagging are the ones involving exterminators.  However, other bugs still really don’t “bug” me that much.

That’s the long-winded background you need for this story.

A couple of weeks ago, in the early morning, I wandered into the spare bathroom.  After being there for a bit, I noticed  something out-of-place on the shower curtain – a gigantic, face-hugging grasshopper.  I excused myself, backed out of the room and went back to bed.  Before Jay headed off to work, I tried to explain there was the granddaddy of all grasshoppers in the bathroom.  What that should have translated to, but didn’t was “this is not a dead mammal, you must get rid of this or I will freak right on out”.  What it actually translated to was, “there’s something tiny and altogether insignificant terrorizing me and I just thought I’d FYI you on this, I’ll get it later.”

After being awake some hours, I gave myself the pep talk.  It’s a GRASSHOPPER for crying out loud.  You loved grasshoppers as a kid. Get a cup and something to cover it with.  Don’t be a baby.  Go on now, open that door and look at it.  It’s probably half the size you remember, you big sissy.  I cautiously opened the door and flipped on the light to size it up. I figured I’d look and then work out the proper sized cup that would be needed to get the job done.  I didn’t see him.  Not at first. Then he flew straight for my head.  That’s when I screamed like an idiot and slammed the door.  Sam thought this was pretty funny and danced around.  For the record, Beagles have a terrible sense of humor.

Jay gets home and this time, more awake, I explain the situation.  Jay goes in to take care of it.  I hear movement, the bath mat being tossed about and then Jay re-emerges declaring something along the lines about how we’ll wait until it dies.  I start wondering about a grasshopper’s lifespan and what my life will mean without the spare bathroom.  I send Jay back in to retrieve a hairdryer and a couple of other minor items. As I recall he wasn’t overly eager to step back in there (his story may be different, but he doesn’t have a blog).  We were now in this for the long haul.

I start telling people my tales of grasshopper terror to friends and co-workers.  It’s greeted with laughter as they doubtlessly picture some harmless 1-1 ½” critter.  Granted, with each telling my arms move further apart and were now well past my shoulders. It was THIS big.  HONEST! I finally call April and start trying to bribe her with cash to come and get it out of my house.  April declines the money and says, “I’ll do it for the challenge!  I’ve got a 10-year-old visiting with a bug net, she’ll love it.”

The pair of them arrive and I direct them to the bathroom.  Nothing.  He has escaped!  I send them back in to be sure.  He’s probably just hiding, waiting for them to leave and then preparing a punishment for me for disturbing him.  No luck. Escaping can only mean he’s lying in wait for me somewhere else.  “Check my pillow.  The face hugger is probably waiting for me on my pillow!!!!” I squeal this in a dignified manner while dancing around the house. They go to my bedroom.  No luck.  “Check the closet.  It’s probably in my clothes!!!!” They end up scouring the whole house, turning things over, peering behind things and finally, April spots him waving at her in a spot she’d previously checked.  They square off. However, he didn’t count on the bug net.  She easily catches him and unceremoniously plunks him inside an empty Cool Whip container.  He hops about angrily hurling his massive body against the plastic sides swearing at her the entire time.  In front of a 10-year-old, no less! Thankfully, none of us are familiar with his alien language.

The critter is literally about 7” long. (Thank you, Monsanto.) The most massive grasshopper I’ve ever seen. One of those that you’d say “that’s an impressive specimen” and I would inquire, “is that code for ‘horrifying’?”

April and her 10-year-old sidekick proudly carry him off.  Unfortunately, when they went to take a picture of him, he leapt out of his plastic prison and bounded over a building, rudely gesturing his extreme displeasure as he escaped one final time.  I understand that there’s now a story, told by a 10-year-old bug-catching sidekick, about the evil king of grasshoppers.

He’s still out there, plotting his revenge.

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That’s a Wrap!

I have amazing friends.  This is a fact.  Granted, they have fairly poor taste and hang out with the likes of me, but you should forgive them – everyone has to have a flaw. I’m just thankful I’m that flaw.

The Sunday before last I met with my friends Meredith and Jerin.  They’re movie people. They’ve had films in film festivals.  They’ve both worked in television. They’re professionals. I, on the other hand, work for the state and have three sketch classes to boast about.  Still, I somehow managed to con them into agreeing to come over to read a sketch I wanted filmed.  I just wanted to pick their brains to understand how to create a shot list – something I was told I needed before I could film.  I realized this was  a bad idea once they walked through the door and transformed immediately from “oh, these are the awesome people I hang out with” to “holy cow, film-making rock stars are standing in my hallway!” I audibly gasped.

They settled in and I handed them my script wondering what possessed me to be so cocky.  I mean sure, they’re great people, but here I was boldly asking them to bestow their professional wisdom on the likes of me for something ridiculous that I probably should have Googled.  Clearly, a better move would have been to just offer up BBQ.  What was I thinking? I could probably defrost something and throw it on the grill.  I mean, that’s why God made armpits, right?

They took the scripts and stated that if they didn’t like something, they weren’t going to spare my feelings.  They wanted me to learn and grow from my mistakes and their criticisms would not be a reflection on me personally.  They added, “this way you know we’re being honest with you when we say we do like something.”  Fair enough.  As they scrutinized my script, I swear it jumped from being a mere three pages to something that was surely 30 to 100 pages long.  Did an hour just roll by? Two? Each question that bubbled up became confirmation that I shouldn’t be showing them my sketch – that perhaps I should distract them with snacks and then, while they weren’t looking, slip the sketches into the recycle bin.  I would look innocently around, seeming a bit confused if asked and say “what sketch? No, you came over for dinner.  Remember?  Hehe, a sketch.  You guys are such kidders!  Love that sense of humor! Never lose that. You know I don’t write sketches.”

Long story short – they liked the sketch and a few hours into our conversation while they were in the midst of tutoring me on filming basics, Jerin said, “I would like to shoot this.”  My jaw nearly hit the floor.  “Is that being too pushy? I understand if…” I think at that point I started blathering about how this was more than I could hope for and how I had wanted to ask them for a while, but couldn’t muster the courage.  How I had always admired them.  I’m sure I started sounding a bit insane and they probably worried about getting a restraining order, but thankfully they still stuck around.  They added, “We’d also like April on this”.  Having April involved is always a good idea for just about anything you could think of that you might need another person.  I put this on my to-do list, “wrangle April.”  April also works in television and is just another one of the amazing people I’m extremely lucky to know.

The following day, I panicked as I realized we were going to have to shoot the next Sunday (last Sunday to be exact). We were only going to get a week to prepare when I hoped we’d at least have the luxury of two. I called them up, they said something along the lines of “we can do this” and they hopped on board. So, in one short week I managed to have a location scouted, actors rehearsed, props procured/built, extras signed-up and best of all a Director of Photography, an Assistant Director of Photography (that was April – yes, I got her!), a Script Supervisor (who apparently don’t get enough respect, but are extremely important if you want a successful film – in fact, if you meet one, hug them), a PA, and a sound person/editor – all for my goofy little film.

I learned a great deal thanks to Meredith and Jerin’s patience. They checked-in throughout our 6 ½ day to make sure I was doing ok, that I thoroughly understood what was happening and to confirm I was getting what I wanted.  They were careful to make the shoot about me and my vision.  I honestly will never be able to thank them enough.  They’re amazing and they’re also very generous with their knowledge and time.

Huge thanks to my core crew: Meredith, Jerin, Richard and April.  I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.  I hope you all know I mean this quite sincerely when I say, you are my heroes and I am in considerable awe of your talent (I always have been).  I am very fortunate to know each of you.

I’ll share more set stories later, but my favorite moment as we filmed the last scene and the cast and crew looked on:

Meredith: That’s it.  Beth, do you want to call it?

Me:  Ok, umm… that’s it!

Meredith: (quietly) You say, “that’s a wrap”.

Me: OH!!! That’s a wrap!!!!

And… that’s a wrap!

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That’s One

My friends occasionally like to hear certain stories over and over again.  At least that’s what I tell myself as I see their eyes glazing over.  I know deep down that look expresses profound “enjoyment” and is in no way an indication that their minds are racing as they try to think up a polite way to exit.  The one I’m about to tell has received several (or two) requests.  It’s the story about the time I gave another adult a mom-style countdown.  You know, those countdowns you’d receive as a kid where the closer your mom got to that final number the more likely her head was to explode and the greater the chance that you were about to be grounded for life.  There was usually the added guarantee that your father would be told and you’d be shamed in front of every single relative you’d ever counted as “living” on your family tree. I’ll explain in a bit, but first I need to set it up.

In my mind, this story happened earlier in the summer, but it looks like it actually happened a little over a year ago.  Not that the day matters.  The day was beautiful, John Stewart’s “Rally to Restore Sanity” had occurred earlier in the day and a group of us were gathered at a local spot for some pre-improv show food and drinks.  I invited some friends we hadn’t seen in a while, my friend April, some improv folks and one of April’s friends who I used to work with back in the day. We’ll call him Craig.

I was the designated driver that evening.  I mention this because it might partially explain why I was in a serious mood. It didn’t help that as I’ve grown older, I’ve become a lot less tolerant of things and I’m really quite prissy when pressed.  Combine all of that with the fact that everyone around me was rapidly devolving on an evolutionary scale thanks to copious amounts of alcohol and were moments away from knuckle-walking in search of a spacious cave and scavenging for food.  What that left them with was someone who wasn’t the most gracious or appreciative of designated drivers nursing an iced tea.

Craig arrived at our haunt with his rally sign proudly displayed and proceeded to plop down next to me in order to brag about his many life accomplishments which included a delightful tale about mocking a person with autism.  Inside I began to growl as I listened and continued to sip on more iced tea.  The mood of everyone at the table was brightening with each fresh margarita and mine was rapidly darkening with each tale of “look at me, I’m amazing! I abused someone with a mental handicap!!  Aren’t I a paragon of humanity? Did I mention, my article was published? Perhaps I’ll read it to you. You would love that! You know, people all over were asking for pictures of me with my very clever sign.  I’m sure I’ll be on several internet pages before the night is over! No, I’m not at all interested in anything about you. Please stop talking.”

At some point, I turned away to join the conversation my husband was having with our friends, which seemed like a much better deal.  They were in the middle of telling a story about a mutual co-worker, Linda, when Craig, realizing he’d lost his captive audience of one, made a dramatically snarky remark along the lines of, “ohhhhhh, Linda!”  I realized it was probably his way of letting us know we were being rude and excluding him so I attempted to catch him up to speed with, “Linda was their supervisor when they worked at…” and he cut me off with a snide, “oh, I really don’t care.”  That’s when I lost my ability to be polite thanks to a lot of tea, enduring margarita giddiness and being subjected to a person who mistakenly thought his endless nattering was actually engaging.  I held up my index finger, looked directly at him and in my best mom voice declared, “that’s ONE.”  He laughed uncomfortably and stared.

We then made our way to the theater and despite being promised, “he doesn’t like improv” he tagged along.  I felt betrayed.  They said he’d go home! Of course, he stuck to my side and blathered away about how awesome he was.  My patience was tanking, but I was alone since the rest of the gang were in tequila induced oblivion.

You’ve really reached a special place in my heart when I start describing you as “boorish” or a “dullard”, which were the words that immediately sprang to mind every time he spoke and since he never stopped speaking they were flashing like little neon signs.  Unfortunately, he was attached to my hip and wouldn’t stop despite the fact that I was now visibly rolling my eyes at him.  I’m certain several long dead Southern relatives rolled over in their graves in that moment. “What appalling cads raised such an uncivilized young lady? Surely, this came from YOUR side of the family!” When the show ended our group stood around discussing what we’d seen, reciting our favorite lines.  His only contribution was an exceptionally graphic description of a physiological event that was occurring in his pants thanks to one of the actors he admired. Delightful.  I was aghast and told him he was being inappropriate and crass.  After a heated and very intellectual debate along the lines of “no, I’m not” “yes, you are” “no, I’m not” I clinched my teeth, held up my hand again and declared, “THAT IS TWO!” I’m not sure what would have happened had I gotten to three, but neither did he.and that caused him to finally shut-up and wander off to his car..

And that my friends is how I made Craig stop talking and why he isn’t allowed to come play with us anymore.  My friends enjoy this story because it’s pretty uncharacteristic of me to snap especially in public. I’m more the quiet seething sort and I never give people countdowns (or count ups as the case may be) .  Plus, Craig is really just one of those guys who has it coming. So, the very idea of quiet me actually breaking down to say something sends them into fits of giggles.  You’re welcome, guys!

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A Bad Day, A Perfect Night

Yesterday I was having a day.  The kind of day that starts off rocky and isn’t on track to right itself soon.  The kind of day that tries to club you over the head and dump you on the side of the road.  The kind of day where a little rain cloud stalks you. The kind where you’re a gigantic magnet for all that is negative and weird.  A bad day.

The day started with locking-up my brakes as I ventured down the highway, twice.  Both times the people in front of me unexpectedly slammed on their brakes, and I followed suit. I skidded merrily along, eyes wide in horror as I narrowly avoided venturing into their trunks.  The car behind me did the same highway skid dance as they veered onto the shoulder to avoid becoming my instant passenger.  The second near miss was a sign, so I took that opportunity to exit.

I was having a day.  My hair was sticking to the side of my head. My face was blotchy. Dark circles hung beneath my eyes.

To celebrate, I took an online personality test and was immediately offended by the results.  It said I was a tattoo hating loner who was insensitive to others hardships and that I should steer clear of things like writing, dancing, photography, and acting – really any creative endeavor.  Great.  All those years devoted to this blog, to orchestra, to dance (tap, modern and ballet), to my camera and to improv were completed wasted.  According to that test, I hate those activities.  I really had no idea.  What an apparent waste of time, energy and money. The tattoo I’ve been desiring for years, it turns out I didn’t actually want that.  The test said clearly that I hate tattoos.  Thankfully, I took the test before ink was pressed to skin.  Insensitive tattoo hating loners like me loathe these things. Too creative!  How many years have I spent unknowingly pissing myself off?  An acquaintance of mine chimed-in noting how accurate those results actually were.  (I’ll miss our time together.  We had some fun.)

The day was bad and devoting so much energy into being grumpy made me want to curl up in a ball and sleep.  Pointless sustained anger takes a lot of energy.

I stepped onto an elevator while looking extra dour.  The rain cloud, my little pal, continued to drip.  That’s when a colleague stepped in.  A rhythmic beat began to reverberate through the small space and suddenly the elevator was filled with the “Beth” rap. When it ended, my co-worker winked and said, “see, it can’t be that bad, Beth.  I made you smile.”  It was the first smile I had all day.

My friends stepped in. “Why would you believe something that’s not true?”  “Why are you paying attention to something that has so many typos?”  I guess the only answer I could have honestly offered would have been, “I guess I’ve decided today is a bad day and clearly I want to be upset.  Hey, I’ve even managed to find the one person who agrees with these results so I can feel extra bad.”

I had planned a Happy Hour for that evening and I was trying to figure out how to encourage people not to show up. Maybe I could just reschedule with those people I hadn’t seen in years. And my newer friends?  Well, they’d have to get used to my quirks eventually if they planned on sticking around.  No time like the present.  (What’s the saying? Friends are the people who like you in spite of yourself?)

The only reason I eventually went to Happy Hour was to avoid the disapproval I’d doubtlessly receive if I canceled.  I hate disapproval more that I enjoy self-loathing.  When I arrived, I was alone.  I sat at a long table and tried to explain to the waiter that “no really, I think there might be others coming, but you know you can never be sure.”  I ordered a drink and sat dwelling on the craptacular bits of the day and how, in all likelihood, no one was coming.  That’s when an old friend I hadn’t seen in about 10 years walked up.  She sat down.  Within minutes the table filled.  All of my favorite people in one spot.  More folks came throughout the night until there were no more extra chairs to drag up and people were left standing.  Stories were told.  Laughter filled the table.  There were even cookies and whole milk.  I have it on the best authority from my cookie/milk aficionado that this is pretty awesome. My little cloud blew away as I looked down the table and smiled.

The night ended with the manager dropping by to offer up a free dessert.  (Our numbers had dwindled and they needed the space for another large group waiting in the wings.)  We moved over to a smaller table and continued to chat while enjoying the dessert sampler bribe.  Free dessert is the best dessert. My idea of a perfect evening.

Thank you, my very favorite people, for coming out and turning a bad day into a delightful night.  My only regret is that I didn’t get to talk to everyone long enough, but being able to look down the table and see your smiling faces, hear your voices and listen to your laughter completely made my evening.