Category Archives: Humor

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FB: A Pocket Reference

So, one day you found yourself on your favorite social media outlet when you were suddenly overcome with the desire to hit that “let’s be pals” button.  And for whatever reason:  friendliness, pity, a desire to fatten the friend ranks so you can worship at the altar of THEM they agreed. Suddenly, like some scandalous diary entry written by your best friend’s older sister, a new window into this person’s life has opened before your eyes. Likes, dislikes, personal views, and photos filled the screen.  Like a good voyeur you poured over every unguarded piece.  You’d finally arrived and there you were sitting in the inner circle along with 100’s of their other friends.  You dabbled a bit.  You liked their updates, maybe a photo or two, you threw in the occasional “LOL”, but you weren’t quite certain where you fit.

Here’s my handy pocket reference to help you figure out your place.  Now this is customized for me, but easily tailored to fit your needs.

  • My husband (he’s awesome! He’s at the top and can pick on everyone. I’m sure he’d never pick on you. )
  • My  parents / My beautiful cousin (she’s a saint – no really, beatified and all)
  • Family I like (I know, sometimes it’s hard to tell which people are related to me and harder still to take a crack at which are my favorite – I suggest Ancestry.com as a start on family in general or you can request a Family Tree – you provide the paper since I can go back to the 1600’s. I’ll do you a solid and highlight my favorites.)
  • Friends from 2nd grade (hitting on the school bus forms forever bonds)
  • Former roommates and their spouses/partners
  • Anyone with the last name or related to anyone with the last name of Adam, Spear, Blankenship, or Simmons (again Ancestry.com)
  • While this is included in the above, let me go ahead and restate it more clearly: THEIR KIDS
  • Those that know and use my unofficial nickname
  • Anyone I have a nickname for (or have been given a title to address them by)
  • Anyone who I’m 100% sure could put a curse on me (seriously, don’t mess with her)
  • People who hate shoes and share their thermos wine – and wear turquoise pants, purple boots and are generally my fashion mentor (I’m not thinking of anyone specific – no, this is a generic reference – you probably have someone like this in your life – maybe two?)
  • Anyone I’ve seen Rocky Horror with (put your hands on your hips…)
  • People I’ve taken a 2nd hand smoke break with
  • People I’ve eaten real/virtual Beignets with (that’s right, all of you)
  • People who have loved up Sam or refused to take Sage (but she’s still available, just saying)
  • Anyone who has battled a Cthulhoid manifestation or staged an Orc rebellion
  • Anyone who has ever uttered, “roll for initiative”
  • People with combat reflexes
  • EverQuest people
  • Improv people
  • Family I’m more “meh” about
  • You

We all know that sometimes finding your place can be difficult, but with this unpatented reference guide (hierarchy), I’ve helped take the guess-work out of it. This guide can also serve as a handy pecking order when you need one and it will help you navigate to your rightful place (bottom).  You’ll develop a richer understanding of the players (characters?) and your place among them.  Soon you’ll be on your way to having positive interactions with complete strangers. (Rolling on your back exposing your belly and throat is also recommended.  Hey, you’re the new guy!)  You’ll quickly be on your way to avoiding awkward conversations and dust-ups on your new pal’s social media feed.  Don’t be the person (aka “dick”) who ignores the hierarchy and gets “un-friended” or “blocked” (your whining about it will exhaust me).

(For the record: My one gripe about blocking, from a blocker’s perspective, is it never properly mocks the blocked person.  I want a page that exclaims, “Wow. You really screwed up. Huh? Yeah, you’ve been blocked. GG. Hopefully someone out there likes you more than this person does.” Zuckerberg, get on that.)

So anyway Champ, you’ve sorted out the who’s who and figured out where you fall (bottom – see chart).  Great job! You’re ready to enter the ring.  Just remember a simple rule:  Everyone above you on the chart gets to abuse you freely.  Everyone below you is a target.

A word of caution when it comes to my personal group of friends:  they’re an insanely clever and somewhat devious lot who will quickly lead you astray and cackle as you step in the proverbial “it”.  Carnage is a rush. Never trust anyone above you.  Don’t be led into a trap.

Now go make some friends!

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Dunes

You’ve seen the Twilight saga (it’s ok, this s safe place and any snickering on my part will subside soon enough) and now I present to you “Dunes” – a parody of the beloved movie franchise written as part of The Institution Theater’s Sketch 201 class featuring the most underused supernatural love interest.  I do suspect that after this sketch we’ll see more of “them” as romantic leads.  Yes, I’m being vague. I can’t go around spoiling things for you.  (Thankfully, you can’t see the YouTube still below, so it really will be a surprise.  Right? Right?!?!)

This is my second sketch to be filmed and I want to thank all the cast and crew involved in making it happen.  Thank you for your time, your energy, for letting me pay you in sodas, coffee, breakfast tacos and sandwiches.

Some special thanks to:

April – for helping me make the costume (we are now pros and our next supernatural costume of this sort will be even more awesome – lots.of lessons learned there), thanks for your ideas, for all the shopping trips, for letting us invade your space, re-arrange and decorate your room.  Also, huge thanks for all of the behind-the-scenes photos.  You were incredible as always.

Jonathan – thanks for taking care of the cast and crew, keeping everyone happy  and for knowing me well enough that when I get brain-locked, I don’t have to say a word – you just swoop in and do.  I hope you’re always available to PA.  You are awesome!

Richard – I cannot begin to thank you enough.  Without you and your talent this project wouldn’t have happened.  Thank you for volunteering so much of your time from filming to editing to providing the music, sound effects and of course the fantastic special effects.  You are terrific and it’s a great privilege to be a part of any shoot you’re on.  I truly feel guilty receiving any praise for this when so much of what made this work is you and your dedication.  I’m looking forward to shooting Clown Family and for borrowing you again to shoot my horrible family birthday sketch.

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Golly Gee Whiz

I can swear.  It’s not nice or pretty or necessarily called for, but in the heat of the moment I can drop a truck load of locked up bile that would rouse disappointed looks from a long line of long dead ancestors followed by a heated debate on exactly whose side of the family was at fault.  Clean up the stream of unnecessary adjectives from one of my tirades and you’ll uncover a stream of insults tailored to point out every flaw, each one punctuated by a bit of spittle and ideally designed to send the victim scurrying for apologetic cover.  Not me at my best, but a throwback to a time when I was bullied and learned that if the quiet orchestra girl unlocked this vitriolic spray, especially under her breath, people would back up. For example, the kids who told me if I rode the bus again they would kill me.  In my defense, I needed to continue to ride the bus.  I liked school.

Thankfully, I’m a “happy” person for the most part.  The kind of person people drop by and say, “hey, I just needed to see that smile.”  And also thankfully, my Mother taught me both manners and restraint (and how to sit up straight and chew with my mouth closed among many other useful party tricks).  This keeps me in check and allows me to say “golly” and “good grief” in polite company (polite company being family, children and overly sensitive pets of the toy variety – let’s face it, a Mastiff isn’t going to blush at a misplaced f-bomb).

Where I’m Going With This

Saturday rolls around and I’m with a sketch writing gang, sitting around a table and doing table reads in a very public location.  The first sketch out of the gate is a dream letter to a horrible parent written from the point of view of a very dignified school teacher who has finally reached her wits end.  The letter was sprinkled with all the things you should never write in a letter from a teacher to a student’s parent unless your intent was to embark on a career of living off the good will of others.  It really needed more, though.  It needed to go to the proverbial “there” to heighten the humor. You see, the writer was a little restrained because she really works in this field and for the most part isn’t the sort that will go for the jugular.  This is not to imply that she doesn’t get mad at times, I’m sure she does, but it’s framed in a more constructive light.  She’s not the type to level relationships with a wrecking ball of rage filled contempt.  That’s when I jokingly offered to help.

“Would you like me to teach you how to swear?”

“Yes, please.”

She looked up hopefully and I swear the sun framed her with a little halo as the part of me that is my Mother whispered, “Yes, darling.  Please regale us with that infamous mouth of yours. ” My throat became dry and my eyes darted around.  There were children.  They had balloons (I’m not kidding, they were handing out balloons).  We were near a playscape.  Lovely people surrounded us who were enjoying a beautiful day chatting with their equally lovely friends.  “Go on, Beth. Let out that angry 14 year old.”  I sputtered, “you could say uhhhh…” I blinked and stared as my mouth moved wordlessly up and down.  Finally, another sketch writer came to the rescue and she offered up, “call the parent a c@#7”.  OH MY! You can’t say the “c” word.  That’s a no-no word.  I looked around nervously to see if anyone else had heard.  I was sure parents were fainting around us. Children were being grabbed up to begin what would turn into years of therapy. Of all the words, that’s a forbidden word – the word only the raciest of women say when they’re in one of those places I don’t frequent – like a gym or a wine bar (I kid, I’m sure they say much worse there).

Her eagerness to learn stunned me into actual silence and my well honed abilities were temporarily (and thankfully) castrated by the idea of unlocking a bit of my ugliness and sharing it. “Look at that face. Look at the halo. She’s an innocent.  You can’t just swear at her. Why not go out and kill goodness while you’re at it, Potty Princess?” It occurred to me then that while swearing is one of my many skills that can never be formally listed on my résumé, it’s not something I can (nor should) pass along.   So, I’m here to tell you that I will not be offering up a Swearing 101 class any time soon.  You’ll just have to hang out at a gym or wine bar.

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Christmas Stalkings

I’ve been feeling left out.  It seems that everyone (and by everyone I mean all of my favorite bloggers) have had a Christmas story to share.  I do not.  Well, I take that back.  I do, but I was threatened by my family.  Fingers were wagged, serious voices in menacing tones were used and there were likely veiled threats which could have put my Christmas/Birthday loot at risk.  Hmph.  You win this time, family.  Then there’s the other story where I spent an entire day being quite rude and when asked politely what I did by some strangers, I may have said somewhat snidely (although, there’s no actual proof and character witnesses are notoriously unreliable), “What do you mean? I don’t do anything.  I’m an uninteresting person.  All I do is sit quietly and listen to people.” Then I folded my arms across my chest in defiant hope the attention would move to someone else. (Maybe not my finest moment, but I had worked myself into a full blown holiday snit with no hope of escape.  It’s a better story if you know all of the players anyway.)

Then a Philosophizing Mouse whispered in my ear that I did in fact have a Christmas story. (You may have your little birds, I prefer deep thinking navigational computer tools.  Hey, I don’t judge you.)  The mouse was right (as always), I do have a Christmas story.  One that will keep my Christmas/Birthday loot safe and one that doesn’t involve a tale of me growling for hours, (oh, “Home for the Holidays” how you get me) which makes it a “nice” story.

Jay and I were invited over for a Christmas Eve celebration involving food and games.  The only request our super enthusiastic hostess had was that we wear a Christmas outfit.  Well now, I don’t have a Christmas outfit.  When I confess this, it is suggested that I buy a shirt and draw a tree on it.  Oh my, I could do that, but… You see, I haven’t had a Christmas outfit (or even a shirt I’ve drawn a tree on) since I was a pre-teen. It was around that time that my eyes rolled into the back of my head only to remain forever stuck.  It’s especially pronounced when I’m confronted with the phrase “Christmas outfit”.  There are two things working against me when it comes to the whole idea of a Christmas outfit.  1) Christmas Day also happens to be my birthday and I’m a little weird about how much of my day I’m willing to share with Christmas, so we’ve drawn up a truce.  In that truce I’m fairly certain it states that I don’t have to wear a Christmas outfit.  2) I am not whimsical.  I am without whim.  Ask anyone who has ever asked me to do something silly.  I am pointedly against whimsy.  No whim here. Whim Free Zone! I am also shy.  Outfits, festive hats, etc. bring attention.  How perfectly mortifying for me.  And now you know why I took improv.  As they say, “I’m a work in progress.” One day, I may be whimsical, but not today.

Now the person asking for this outfit is someone who you don’t want to let down.  She LOVES Christmas!!!  Not even a mere “loves”.  No, it’s a LOVES!!  And that’s when I found myself at HEB (our local grocery store chain) on Christmas Eve heading to the Christmas aisle to see if there were any Christmas headbands.  You know the kind with antlers or a tree or maybe a snowman.  If all else failed, I could get a Santa hat and while the thought of wearing such a thing pained me beyond belief, I knew it would be greatly appreciated.  I marched through the store while a little pep talk played through my head.  “You can do it! Do it because it will make someone else happy and it won’t hurt you.  Go on now. Just one more aisle.”

I rounded the aisle passing a woman who was hopping on one foot with a single goal to… “Are you ok?”  The woman hopped away, “I twisted my ankle.” “Do you need help?” “No, I’m just working it out.” “You sure?” She hopped alongside me until we made it into the aisle. “I’m good.  This just happens.” After some convincing that she didn’t need help, I moved to where the headbands would be if the aisle hadn’t been devoured by shoppers who were clearly more on the ball than I, but I was still optimistic.  “Oh, would you look at how cute this is.”  My hopper had become more of a ginger limper and brought over a festive Christmas tray. “Adorable!” I turned back and refocused.  Surely, there were some antlers here.  I just wasn’t seeing them.  “Look at this!” I smiled politely to comment on her latest find.  She offered up that she was picking things up for her fellow teachers while I foolishly told her about my Christmas outfit mission.  The next thing I knew she’d limped to my side and was pulling things down.  “How about this? You can wear this ornament like a necklace.  The contrast would be great if you had a green shirt.  Do you have a green shirt?” No. “You should go to Hobby Lobby, get a green shirt and then…” She had a million suggestions. My eyes went wild as I imagined puffy paints, a Bedazzler with fake plastic jewels and then I pictured the glue gun mess and crafty thing carnage splattered across my table.  It was awful.  I tred not to audibly yelp.  I should mention I’m not crafty.  The right side of my brain is a tiny little nugget – a place where creativity leaps into an empty abyss. She continued to throw out suggestions, nuzzling in closer to my side and then my “fight or flight” reaction kicked in.  I politely thanked her and ran to the opposite side of the store. “Bad idea. Bad idea. Pick up things. Get out.” It was one of the few times I was thankful for HEB’s expansiveness.   With the distance I began to breathe more easily and felt pretty confident that with her bum ankle I’d never see her again.  How far could she reasonably hop? Cue the Psycho theme music, because as soon as I felt safe she’s on me again before I could even scream.  “I found you this shirt!”  It’s a holiday shirt. “Wow! Look at that. That’s not atrocious.” (She caught me off guard.  It was the nicest thing I could think to say that wasn’t, “OH MY GOODNESS!!! You again?!?! How did you… How could you… AHHH!!!”)

I escaped the store with a poinsettia in hand, looking over my shoulders as I made my way to the car, and I was hopeful this plant would be enough of a distraction that the hostess wouldn’t notice I wasn’t wearing a shirt that blinked or sparkled.  That night I even donned my favorite crimson sweater and threw on poinsettia earrings – a compromise.

No mention was made of the holiday outfit.  Whew.

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Dunes

I’ve waited over a month, but I’m so excited I couldn’t wait any longer to announce (and update family and such):

In two short weeks we’ll be shooting my second sketch titled Dunes.  I’ve got a knock-out cast and the best crew that a director, offering free food and snacks,  could ask for.  Let’s hear it for Dasani and fruit roll-ups! And I’m so excited I’m ending sentences in prepositions and beginning sentences with conjunctions, because it’s the only way my fingers can type grammar sommersaults! (I don’t think I scored a “10″ with the English judges. :( )

I’ll keep you posted and promise to torture you with the video soon. (Think toothpicks and dripping water.  The kind of torture that will have you saying “good job, guys” and maybe drooling a little bit.)

DISCLAIMER: The cast and crew of Dunes will not be held responsible for drool.

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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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Dear Debit Card Thief

Dear Debit Card Thief,

I want to apologize for not being able to completely cover your $25 bill at Romano’s Macaroni Grill last week. You see, it was the end of the month and I was left to scrounging through the change drawer and relying on the kindness of friends. I’m sure you of all people can understand that things sure can get tight at times.  I can’t begin to imagine how embarrassing it had to have been to leave the restaurant, expecting to go shopping and then have those stores decline your charges outright.  Hopefully, you didn’t get that withering look that cashiers can sometimes dish out.  You know the one, the one that silently accuses you of being a dead-beat as you ask them to run the card just one more time.  I’ve been there.  I hope you threatened to call the bank, because clearly this was an error on their end.  It’s a good way to save face when you’re doubtlessly holding several other people’s cards and planning your route to the next electronics store.

I wish I could have offered you more than a meal, but truth be told I’m seriously underpaid for my skills (as you would now agree). I mean, I’m educated and arguably clever, but I just never lived up to my potential.  I’m a bit of a disappointment to my family and frankly myself. I bet you know that feeling.  I hope you don’t mind one small critique, though.  You’re a little lacking in the ability to identify a suitable mark. The disheveled hair and beaten-up polyester work outfit with the scruffy looking shoes doesn’t scream “loaded” to me, but hey you’re the “debit card leverage expert” as my good friend Jerry refers to you.  (I’ve learned that “debit card thief” is not very PC.  My bad.)  Of course, I think the problem is really with your help – the person who took my card and neatly stole the information from it before handing it back along with whatever it was I purchased. It’s really hard to find good lackeys these days. Am I right?

I also want to thank you.  You’ve reintroduced me to the bank’s personnel and I’ve rediscovered my checkbook.  Wow, now someone had some bad taste in check themes last time she ordered.  Plus, I’ve made some major strides with my anger management. If I can be honest with you, it’s quite terrible.  I tend to use humor to mask it. (This note is a great example.) But I just want to boast that I’ve now successfully gone days without wishing anything on you involving a deranged tribes person with a rusty machete and poor aim.  Baby steps.  Did you know you can’t actually extradite citizens to foreign countries who have questionable laws that upset groups like Amnesty International when the crime was committed here?  I know I was bummed, too.

Anyway, hope you weren’t overly embarrassed at the stores. Best wishes in the future.

XXOO – Beth

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Hotspots

As promised -  my short film that was shown during our recent sketch review: The Moral Compass Rumpus

Huge thanks go to the cast, to all of my friends and family who I managed to wrangle at the last minute and to my outstanding crew who made it happen on a very tight schedule.  I couldn’t have done this without you.

See my earlier post: Hot Spots: Behind the Scenes if you’re not sure what’s going on.

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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! :)

by

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.