Category Archives: Humor

by

A Further Commitment

Since I’m making all sorts of commitments these days, I thought I’d add one more:

I will (try to) stop spreading the vicious (albeit entirely true) rumor that one of my co-workers eats gluten-free babies (food allergies, you know – gluten rich babies can wreak havoc on the stomach – can’t be too careful) just as soon as she stops eating them.  That’s a Big Blue Mess guarantee right there.

I will also attempt to not roll my eyes at the next co-worker who hears these rumors in hushed whispers within the safe confines of my cubicle and asks quite sincerely (and a bit naively), “Beth, are you serious?”  Of course, I’m serious.  Gluten-free baby eating cannibals is a rising menace in the work place.  You should be ever vigilant!

Ok, off to work on my office awareness campaign.  (Which is a lot like avoiding work on my sketch for class. Cannibals are much more interesting than this 2nd draft.)

by

A Writing Commitment

In sketch class this past Tuesday night we were supposed to present our realistic writing schedule. You’d think budding sketch writers (or their sidekicks – that’s me!) would already have one worked out; you’d be mistaken. When asked, I confidently proclaimed, “I can write from 5:30 to 6:00 every night”. It seemed kind of doable when I said it, but it turns out that I was punch drunk from the high I got from laughing in class. When I made that deal I was not in my right mind. Sure, I wasn’t over-committing in any way. It’s only 30 minutes of my time and there is the fact that I do feel a small amount of guilt about not creating any new posts. What the heck? 30 minutes! I can do that! The deal was sweetened a bit when our teacher said, “you don’t have to write during the time, you can just sit”. Ooo, sitting. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m quite accomplished at this. In fact, certain parts of my body boldly declare that I’m quite a chair athlete – easily a medalist in the sport.

When Wednesday rolled around, my first day of committed sitting I dragged into the house and declared, “I’m taking a nap” (too much funny the night before wore me out), and then I successfully slept through my first 5:30-6 window. Once I realized I blew it, there was no point in sitting at another time. The deal was 5:00-5:30. No backsies. I hadn’t committed to 6:00-6:30 or even 7:15-7:45. Here it was, my first day and I’d already screwed up. My only brief brush with my chair that evening involved pressing “Like” on Facebook. That George Takei, always good for a laugh and that Fareed Zakaria, what a brilliant man. Oh, I suppose I did post something about making banana bread for a birthday shindig. My commitment to writing just shining through in a two sentence status update.

Thursday came around and I couldn’t be bothered again. I mean, there were the stories from the shindig about the various birthday party clashes that I simply had to relate to Jay. You see, yesterday I learned that what you bring to the party determines your office status and the cheese bringer rules over everyone. It is VERY important you bring the cheese and the crackers if you want to move ahead and be somebody. The cheesers trump the cake people, the kolache people and even the bringers of the chocolate chip ladened banana bread (aka me). Well, come party time and we had TWO bringers of cheese. I know! The stakes were high; all bets were off. People gasped, an older employee covered the eyes of a younger more impressionable one. A palpable silence filled the cubicle as the two cheese bringers eyed each other – sizing up their cheese opponent. Only one could sit at the top of the cubicle totem pole. Plates were thrown down and one managed to land theirs in the prominent front and center part of the table. An employee fainted. See, who can possibly write when there’s that kind of drama around them? Plus, post cheese showdown I had to go to the doctor where a woman was paraded around in shackles. How could I possibly be expected to sit in a chair for 30 whole minutes and write when I was wrapped up in making up stories about why she was in chains. There was simply too much drama around me; I couldn’t be expected to write actual words or sit for 30 minutes. I do confess that my one attempt at writing involved sending several texts to my friend Kendra. Well, I couldn’t be expected to keep the shackle story to myself and the doctor was running late which gave me free time and it IS technically writing. I even used full words – never once devolving to text-speak, so it clearly counts towards effort.

Hey, but today is Friday and here I am actually writing! I wish I could tell you I turned a new leaf, but the truth is – the only reason I’m here is because I got stood up by a kid named Colt on Hoth in a galaxy far, far away and Sam is currently more interested in napping. Errr I mean, look at me!! I’m writing just like I promised! :) Yessirree. I’m sticking to my commitment.

One brief, unrelated story that has nothing to do with me not writing, but is something I’m genuinely excited about: Tomorrow I get to spend five hours in a singing improv workshop with Laura Hall. Laura Hall is the musical director/improviser from “Whose Line is it Anyway”. How cool is that? Even better still is that I also get to spend time with folks from my former singing improv classes and I kind of adore them.

Though I probably won’t write about it OR sit in this chair, but maybe I will.

by

Advice & Perspective

Last week the following email managed to leap over my spam filter and land among my various fan emails (my friends simply refer to them as ‘notes’, Philistines! But they know they’re fans deep down):

“Hi Beth,

I came across bigbluemess.com and thought there would be a good fit for a partnership with our network of local landing pages in various verticals. Our users are looking for informative articles, and advice, and your perspective stood out as a fit.

I’m looking to set up a call for my director to learn more about bigbluemess.com as  well as have her bring the right person up to speed on how we work with  our partners. Would you be the best person for this conversation? If so, would either this afternoon at 3:00 PM EST or tomorrow at 11 AM EST work better for an intro call?”

After tearing apart the sender’s email address, determining the email’s source by sifting through header information and finally cyberstalking the sender through LinkedIn (as well as a few other sites), it appeared that it was legitimate.  Being legitimate gave me permission to laugh.  Well, once I finished translating it and determined what was meant by the term “vertical”.  I’m a pro at “horizontal” eight to nine hours out of any given day; however, vertical has always been challenging especially on Mondays.  Apparently this “vertical” is a different beast. I’d share the definition, but I think it’s important we all embark on our own personal Odysseys (that and I think deep-down, you may not care).

I must say I was a bit offended.  The note implies that:

  1. I write articles.  No self-respecting journalist would ever look at my posts and award them the title of “article” unless they were stoned or half-heartedly making an attempt at stand-up. I’m almost positive all of my past English teachers/professors were overcome with a strong compulsion to roll their eyes in unison as soon as the guy typed the line.  We won’t even talk about the “informative” part.  (Well, unless we’re talking CCL surgery and physical therapy for beagles in Austin, TX.  I have steered a few readers in the right direction that one time.)
  2. I give advice. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  AH HAHAHAHAHAHA!  My advice in a nutshell: Don’t assume a slow southern/Texas drawl is indicative of a a slow mind.  Trust your gut. Don’t randomly kick things, especially around hospitals or fire ant mounds.  Let me just send up a huge apology to my grandmother, Grandbuddi; I hope I didn’t cause you much discomfort, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell what that was underneath your covers.  Please understand I was still a teenager, which means my brain was half formed and I was still somewhat of a sociopath, like most youth.  I’ve stopped kicking most things now.  You’d be quite proud.
  3. I offer a sought after perspective.  Wow.  I should display my reader count to shake them back into reality. How desperate must a company be for partners if they skim my site and think we’d make a good match?  Sure, I can offer a bit of perspective when it comes to improv or how my whining both plagues and confounds my sketch writing teacher, but real, thoughtful, and introspective insight where I bestow my pearls of perspective on a regular basis?  I don’t have it in me. My friends refer to me as the “token blonde”. That’s a strong indication that there’s probably not a lot of insight rattling around upstairs.  Insight scares me.  People might make pilgrimages to my house or find my face on their toast.  Then there’s the whole problem with what do you do to feed the masses.  Should we build a balcony on which I can stroll out at noon and wave? Will the Home Owners Association allow for a shrine in my yard when we can’t even display tasteful yard gnomes? And what if my new found minions ask me questions?  Let’s face it, at best I’d end up being the embodiment of Peter Seller’s character in “Being There” and no one wants to see that sequel. See, this is a slippery slope.

Needless to say, I didn’t respond or set-up a call.  I’m pretty sure my advice, perspective and “informative articles” were not quite what they would be looking for in a “partner” and their verticals would become diagonals – sloping in entirely the wrong direction.  Plus, to be quite honest those call times would be right in the middle of my work day, meaning the call would have to be made from my desk where all of my co-workers/cube-farm mates would learn how truly important I am.  Do they have a vertical? I bet they don’t even have a decent bar graph. I couldn’t do that to them.  It would be like finding out that Clark Kent was actually Superman.  I prefer my workplace anonymity where no one is sure if I can work the copier.  Finding out I write compound sentences would blow their minds.

Has anyone else received a solicitation like this and did you respond?

by

The Comment Overshare

I have to make a confession. I’m a blog commenting oversharer. I’ll find myself completely captivated by a well-written story and the next thing I know, clicking “Like” just won’t do; I must tell a related story of my own. It’s a bit embarrassing at times as I look back at the other comments. They tend to range from a friendly word to a simple supportive sentence, and then there’s mine sticking out like a sore Dickens installment.

Maybe it’s that need for connection. I relate to the story being told, to its author and the next thing you know I’m compelled to tell a story of my very own. Hooray, we’re bonding with words! I know words! They know words! It’s like we’re practically best word friends! Or it could be that I can go from zero to slumber party in the length of time it takes me to complete your story; this is my more frightening over-exuberant side that occasional peeks out and demands more friends, pillow fights, frozen bras and rice crispy treats. (I have no idea why my friends steer clear of my house; it’s truly baffling.)

Lately, I’ve been doing my very best to only click the “Like” button. I follow that by immediately sitting on top of my hands to prevent any anecdotes from accidentally leaking out and dribbling all over an unsuspecting comments section. It’s hard – so very hard. I get a little twitchy. Beads of perspiration form. I sing “Mary Had a LIttle Lamb” while rocking slowly in place.

Mary had a … Fine! Ok, ok, ok, remember that time you wrote about that crazy thing with your co-worker? Well, once MY nutty co-worker did… GAH! This isn’t the “Comment” section. I’ll just save that little snippet for your blog.

by

A Plea to Stephen Colbert

Friends and Family (the rest of you are off the hook again – yipppee!)

I just want to thank you all for helping support The Institution Theater and Me – especially all of you past and present PBS folks.  It means a great deal to me and I know I owe you one.  You are now officially on the “Beth’s Favorite People Forever and Ever” list.  I know, it’s like Christmas has come early (or maybe really late).  Hrmm…  The rest of you, it’s still not too late to make the list, but you’re cutting it close.  Do you really want to be on the ”other” list – a list you could avoid for a mere $10?  There are only a few more days left on the theater’s drive to make $20k and they’re still not there.  It’s going to be close.

So, the theater owners made a little video and here’s where you can help if $10 is like pulling really cheap teeth.  We all know we’re just six degrees from Kevin Bacon (I can make it in 4), which means we’re probably even closer to Stephen Colbert.  If you can’t give $10, maybe you could pass this video on to a friend who knows Stephen Colbert.  Then I could say I attend the Stephen T. Colbert Theater of Imagineering for a Better Better Tomorrow.  He might even name one of the owners after himself and finally put Perry’s Hair on the Threat Down list (unless he already did that and I missed the episode).

by

I’m Quitting

Tuesday after work started like most Tuesdays after work do – dinner and the dramatic announcement of “I think this is my last sketch writing class.”. “Yes, I’ll give myself this last class and then I will plan to be home before 10pm from here on out!” My friends never grow tired of this pronouncement and by “never” I mean “always”, because it’s usually followed by a small “I’m the worst sketch writer” pity party with balloons shaped like sad little animals as I recount why what I’m saying is 100% gospel. Their protests to make me see reason are now printed on a colorful flyer so they don’t have to repeat themselves one more exhausting time. I wear them thin on Tuesday The flyers help lessen the need for eye rolling this way. (As you can see, I’m making tremendous strides towards my resolution to work on my self-esteem. You can see that, right?)

Well, I come by my lack of faith in my writing quite honestly. On that very first day of class a couple of months back, I was traumatized when I discovered that I was the only person who wasn’t born with a pen in their hand. As we went around the room establishing our writing creds, everyone seemed to be a serious writer and I, on the other hand, could only offer up “I blog!!” There was smiling, that patient kind you give when faced with someone who is severely mentally deficient that you don’t want to discourage. “Umm, I can also sign some really filthy things in ASL,” but I suppose that’s not writing or anything to really brag about – it’s more a neat pet trick to horrify a friend who does sign. As an educator, she’s quite proud that “this was all that Beth learned.” The only other person who wasn’t a writer was an accomplished fashion photographer, so that left me without a peer and signing quietly to myself.

So, Tuesday evening arrives and I’ve got my first parody sketch prepared and ready for feedback. I wander into the inner calm place in my mind that says, “you can survive the next three hours and as a reward you never have to come back.” YAY! Half an hour into class and I manage to never raise my hand to read anything of mine, because it’s a bit like raising my hand to gargle glass or poke my eye out with a stick. Why would I do that? My friend Morgan strolls in. Morgan is the reason I took sketch writing in the first place; she has a way of making things seem cool. You may remember her from the story about the obnoxiously expensive purse that could feed a third world country. I think, “how sad I won’t see Morgan after this evening, but we still have email.” I’ve positioned myself so I can see the clock clearly. I watch it closely as it ticks down my final hours in class. I make it two hours without volunteering to read my first parody. (Aside: Yes, rationally I know sketch writing is new for me and I’m doing something I’ve never done before, but I want to be the best. Blame my upbringing. Waiting on my brain to understand the fundamentals gets in the way of kudos, awards and a ribbon that says “Best Girl”. I want the bloody ribbon.)

Then the time comes where there are only two parodies left to read. A game of rock, paper, scissors is called to determine who will read next. I can see that Morgan is going to throw “rock” by the way she’s holding her hand in the 1-2-3 lead-up and I immediately throw “paper”, because I like to win. Then I realize, “you threw paper!!! IDIOT! What were you thinking?!?!”

I had to cast my sketch, “I’d like you to play the part of Clara, I’d like you to be my narrator, and…” Once the roles are cast, I immediately proceed to shake as my words are read. I don’t like being a squirrely, twitchy person, but as you know, my writing being read out loud does this to me every time. It’s much worse if I have to read it. I watch everyone’s reactions to see how it’s playing out and to my delight they seem to be laughing. Whew, they get the jokes. I can tell when each one realizes what I’m parodying.

When it’s over, I throw my notebook down on my lap and prepare for the feedback on how to make it better. I can conceal my trembling easier on my lap than I can on the table.

Morgan turns around and looks at me and says something like, “Beth, that was great. I have nothing.” Well, she likes me personally. She’s my friend. Did I mention that purse? So, I wait for someone else and that’s Jason, whose writing I admire greatly (in my next life I’d like to be as funny as he is). Jason adds, “I’ve also got nothing and I’d like you to submit this to the Etch-a-Sketch showcase I host on Fridays.” I don’t know any actors and shyly stammer that out. Jason responds, “I’d be glad to play a part.” That’s when the rest of the class chimes in, “me, too!”

The only real suggestion for a change I receive is, “maybe change the mummy’s name from Amenhotep to Tut – it’s easier to say.” (I may have killed my narrator with the number of times he had to say “Amenhotep” until our teacher finally gave him some relief by suggesting, “go ahead and say ‘the mummy’ instead”. Part of the fun of that sketch for me was forcing someone to say “Amenhotep” repeatedly. I’m a simple soul.)

I left class giddy and aglow. Their approval and willingness to play parts in my sketch was almost as a great as a “Best Girl” ribbon. So, tonight my sketch parody will appear in the theater’s sketch showcase and will star my super supportive classmates.

I guess I can’t quit until next Tuesday.

by

On Resolutions and Mayans

Thanks to some exceptionally  lazy Mayans, who either ran out of large bits of stone or simply grew bored with chiseling, I’m left wondering if it’s really worth the effort to make any New Year’s resolutions.  I mean, we’re talking the end-of-days.  If I decide to exercise more and eat healthier how will that help me come Saturday, December 22nd?  Then there’s all of those apocalyptic pre-show events to ramp us up to the big day.  I definitely don’t want to miss out on any of those.  Everyone whose anyone will be there.  My hope is that they’ll get Ricky Gervais to host.  Fingers crossed! So, I’m thinking I can just write off December entirely and maybe even November as well; those months are officially booked. That leaves me with about ten months to resolve to do something.

Now last year, I also didn’t make any resolutions even without the threat of calendar-hating Mayans, but I did try a few things that challenged me in new and scary ways.  I got on stage a few times and while up there, I even improvised a few songs (we will never mention the gospel number again).  I wrote some of my very first sketch pieces and had one performed.  (Sure, I actually didn’t have a choice.  A flyer was shoved in my hand declaring that this event  was going to happen despite me digging in my heels, but it still counts.)  I made a new friend.  I discovered some great writers through WordPress.  Heck, I even got a new subscriber or two to my own blog. (Thanks, y’all!)  And I received a beautiful compliment from Tom, one of my teachers, that hit home and I’ve been mulling over.  It was: “Beth, you’re brilliant. I wish there were a way I express that to you where you’d believe me.”

I think from this, we may be able to draw-out a list for this year.  Well, for the next ten months:

  • Continue to challenge myself, despite it being insanely intimidating.  (No one needs to know I nearly dropped my new sketch class the day before it started.)
  • Write more – sure, the June Creativity Challenge pushed me a little more than usual, but when I saw the blog stats on my writing over the year, it was kind of pitiful.
  • Read more.  Last year I read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society = a charming little book and I’m sure there was something else.  Surely, there was. (Most pitiful reading year in ages.)
  • Become wise – not wiser, just plain old wise.  I want to sit on a mountain, have pilgrims trek up to see me and bring offerings.  In lieu of that, I’ll settle for more movie nights where friends trek up to my suburban utopia and bring snacks.

Finally:

  • Believe Tom.  Of all the things on my list, this one is the hardest for me.  I’m not certain it’s even achievable, but I’ll try.  I truly wish I could believe him. I know he wishes I could, too.

There’s one last resolution I want to try that I came across on a beautifully written blog titled The Art of An Improbable Life. I want to make a list of the important people in my life and write them a letter that expresses what they mean to me.  Now, I know some of you are uncomfortable with this kind of thing, so you’ll just have to suck-it-up and live with it for the remaining five months we have on this planet.  Yes, that’s right – five months.  You didn’t think I was going to start writing to you tomorrow, did you?  If you’re lucky, I’ll put you at the bottom of the list so you won’t have to endure my love letter for more than a couple of months tops.

I think that’s a pretty impressive list considering the impending doom.  Thank you,  Mayans!  Your laziness has helped me keep that list short.

by

The Jury Dance

Last week one of my more soft-spoken co-workers popped into my cube, lowered her voice and said, “Beth, I need to ask you a question and I need you to take it seriously.” My curiosity was piqued; this isn’t someone who would normally seek me out for advice. I mean, I sit over here, she sits over there and there’s all of that distance between us. I worried that this was possibly something I couldn’t and maybe shouldn’t handle. I mean, I am the token blonde among my friends and when forced into being overly serious, my mind tends to flit about in protest and I develop fuzzy animal Tourette’s. “Your marriage is in shambles and you need my advice? FLUFFY BUNNY BEAGLE EARS!! Sorry. You were saying?”

“Beth, I need you to promise me you’ll take this seriously.”

I leaned in a little closer and adopted my version of the serious and concerned face. I threw in some forehead wrinkles just for show. “Of course.”

“Beth, I was speaking to Lillian and she said that you helped her get out of jury duty.”

“I did?” I was confused, I really couldn’t recall ever doing this or even claiming I could do this.

“Yes. Beth, she said you did a dance.”

“What?” Now I was surprised. It’s not that I doubted her word. I mean it completely sounds like me, but I couldn’t recall the specifics. Heck, I’d do a pratfall for a laugh under the right circumstances so a dance wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.

“Beth, I’m serious. I need you to do your dance. I don’t want to go to jury duty. Will you do the same dance you did for Lillian for me?”

She had absolute faith in my abilities and I did my best not to let her down by trying to imagine what ridiculous movements I previously made to drive off a jury summons (or get laughs) – nothing specific came to mind, so I was left improvising a goofy chair wiggle dance. I waved my arms about in the air, shook my tush, threw my head around and then declared, “that’s the dance”.

She was impressed and a little awed (as you would be, if I cornered you and your fight-or-flight instinct didn’t kick-in fast enough). “Beth, thank you sooooo much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I’ll let you know what happens.”

This encounter stressed me out a bit, because she was actually placing a great deal of faith in my antics. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say when this blew up in my face and she was selected to be a juror. “Shoot, I forgot I needed to stand up.” “Shoot, you asked on a Tuesday. This never works on a Tuesday.”

The following week I received the update, “Beth, I called the courthouse and they said I didn’t have to show-up. They’ve already selected the jury and they’ve released me. I can’t thank you enough. Your dance worked just like Lillian said it would. I’m going to call her and thank her for sending me to you.”

What I’ve taken away from this is either I have the potential to be a charismatic cult leader or I may actually have magical dance powers that impact our judicial system. I should probably use these powers for evil. I mean good. Crazy typos. (Note to karma: I appreciate your humor and accept that I am going to be sequestered for a year.)

by

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!

by

Aw Shucks!

Jacqueline from Mature Student Hanging In There kindly awarded me with the Kreativ Blogger Award. Jacqueline lives in the highlands of Scotland where I understand it gets to be very cold – the kind of cold that would instantly kill a Texan. She’s also a proud mom, a non-traditional student, a caregiver, a puddle jumper and one of Santa’s jolliest elves. You should take a moment to check-out her blog.

This is a pay-it-forward award and rules state:
For this award, I have to share 10 things that you may not know about me (lucky you). Then I have to pass the award on to at least six other bloggers.
I shared 12 things about me, because I can and I really wanted to add a music video at the end.

As for my six+, I’m going to cheat a bit and point to my blog log – like Miss Staten Island of My Old NY. All of these people deserve recognition for the blogs they write. I enjoy each of them for a variety of reasons. If I named them individually (like Miss Staten Island of My Old NY ) then someone might get the idea that I loved one more than the other (or were being pushy again about someone posting) and you should all know, I love you all just the same (at least when I’m talking about you in an open forum. ;) The ones that buy me presents, I actually do love more – like Thistlecloud). There’s only one I would add, which is not on that list, and that is my friend Anna’s blog. I’m not allowed to link to it. :( I know. It’s very sad. You would enjoy it, too. It’s very funny. (I’m suddenly Hemingway.) Thanks for depriving the world of your funny, Anna.

10 Things About Myself

  1. I was born on Christmas Day.
  2. I’m often asked “do you mean THE day” – yes, there is in fact only one Christmas Day that I’m aware of, but you may have two – if you do, that’s ok, I was born on the one that gets all the recognition on the calendar.
  3. I played viola through college and received a small music scholarship and I’ve played professionally.
  4. In the last orchestra I was in, I spent most of the time wanting to beat up a particularly obnoxious flautist. If I described her to you in detail you would, too. Since I can’t handle the tremendous responsibility of unleashing a mob on a helplessly annoying flute player, I’ll refrain from continuing the story. However, please feel free to send her a psychic “stink-eye” on my behalf.
  5. Most people outside orchestra aren’t aware of this fact:  the viola is the most beautiful instrument in the orchestra.
  6. I was 18 before I ever crossed the Texas state line.
  7. When I’m in Texas, I do not have an accent – you do. We’ll renegotiate the next time I’m outside of the state.
  8. I used to hold a blue belt in Tae Kwon Do before I was hospitalized for an unrelated injury that took me out of that sport. I’m 100% confident you could beat me up, but let me say it only takes 10 lbs. of pressure applied to the right spot for a person to permanently wreck your day. I happen to weigh more than 10 lbs.
  9. I struggle with writing. I’ve never been a “verbal” person and prefer gesturing and grunting as a way to communicate. (My friend Anna is the only one person who can translate this with any accuracy. We’ve held many serious conversations where no actual words were spoken.) Where my cousin spoke at an early age, I tended to walk up to things (like people who talked too much) and hit them – who can stand sassy talking types with their clever little words? Seriously, I do blog to work on my writing skills so I don’t devolve into a ragged creature that scrambles around on the floor and scurries off to hide in dark places.
  10. My all time favorite movie is Sex, Lies & Videotape.  What can I say? It really speaks to me.
  11. (because I can) My friends are all scarily brilliant people who keep me around for their amusement. They don’t think that I’m aware of this because of my excessive drooling.
  12. Finally -  I’m going through a huge Mumford & Sons craze. Enjoy! (New album in 2012!)