Category Archives: Humor

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Sketch Writing 101: The Sketch

On Sunday we had a showcase for all of the Sketch 101 writers featuring one of our pieces (we’d written 5 over the course of the class).  Throughout the course of the class, I had some lows and some very lows and an extremely dramatic meltdown that I dragged several people and my teacher into (lucky them!) because I felt like I was completely outclassed and over-my-head.  I mean, what was I thinking? I write a series of run-on-sentence style blogs.  Whether true or not, I felt like I was the kid with the Big Chief pad and jumbo pencil trying to muscle into the table with actual writers.  I spent the first part of the class trying to spontaneously combust.  Did you know that turning to ash on cue is actually a lot harder than you’d suspect?  You probably never thought of that, did you?  Errr… me either. *cough*.  Then I kinda found my writing legs.

So, without further ado here is my sketch:

WARNING: It’s PG-13 for suggestive language – if you’re easily offended, it might not be your cup of tea.  Also, it’s from a 101 class.  Several improv teachers just cringed because I typed that, but there you have it.  Oh, and watch the guy 2nd from the right, he has some subtle stage directions at the beginning and you may need the audio turned up a little to hear.

Confessions

Thanks to my super supportive friends and my awesome husband, Jay for putting up with me during this process.  A huge thanks to Tom Booker, my teacher (the guy on the far right – he was in Babylon 5!) who talked me off the ledge and read my stage directions for this performance.  Also a huge thanks to the actors who brought my words to life.

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Training Sam to be a Killer

Sam by Big Blue Mess
Sam, a photo by Big Blue Mess on Flickr.

So, yesterday we had to have another frank talk with Sam. As you may recall, we recently had to educate her on her kind’s not so proud history of hunting rabbits and foxes in packs. We tried to explain that it’s not exactly fair when you have 30 of your closest buddies along when you’re running down a single opponent. Of course, Sam whole-heartedly agreed, because that’s 29 other beagles and hounds, not to mention pesky humans and annoying horses, who could get in your way and prevent you from snacking on the very best bits. I said, “you’re missing the point” and she responded, “you’re having an imaginary conversation with a beagle.” Fair enough.

Yesterday’s conversation was about beagles being used for testing and the importance of not being a docile, easy-going creature. It went something like this, “hey Sam, now if a lady in a lab coat comes at you with mascara, what do you do?” Sam wagged. “I don’t think you’re getting this. How about a different scenario. Say some skinny science geek says “lick this blush” or he rubs a scented Kleenex all over your face, what do you do?” More wagging from Sam. I sighed. “No Sam, wagging isn’t the answer. You rip their throats out. Got it? You’re a vicious little demented killer. You’re no longer Sam. You’re Destructicus Canine Slayer of Evil! Wow, that’s a ridiculous name. Good thing I didn’t choose it.” *wag**wag**wag* “You know, I think you’re getting the hang of it. Just like that only more vicious and less panty! Now do squinty eyes! No, no, less soulful! You’re a beast! A force to be reckoned with by mammal kind. Now let’s go storm a lab champ!”

“You know i have no idea what you said, but I bet it was about food. I like to CUDDLE! You’re nice! Now, let’s storm the kitchen!”

*sigh*

Ok, I may have really given this one-sided speech to Sam yesterday. I think she appreciated it and is on the road to becoming a ferocious  attack beagle. Tomorrow I’ll try to introduce her to camouflage and how to stealthily sneak past guards. This recruit has great potential. Mental note: must bring treats to hold her attention in training.

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Thanksgiving

Sometime after the first week of November our Thanksgiving plans blew up in a strange way.  I’d attempt to share the details, but judging by how the story has been received here, you’d only feel compelled to respond with information about the weather or maybe some interesting bits from the news (I had a focus group look into it).  So, we’ll leave it at me feeling weird about the whole thing and the rest of the world finding the story of my plight about as interesting as the predictions about Black Friday sales, and only slightly more interesting in the states than say Egypt getting a new Prime Minister.  If you were to map it out as an equation, it would look like this:  Consumerism > Global Politics > What was that you were saying?

That left me with a couple of weeks to decide what Jay and I were going to do for this special day.  The plans ran from “go to a local restaurant and pick-up a Thanksgiving to-go pack” to “I dunno, maybe blow it off”.  Three days before Thanksgiving, I decided we were a-go for the holiday and I wrote out our menu: Turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes (with marshmallows of course, we’re not uncivilized), fresh green beans, salad and a potato concoction.  Oh, and pumpkin pie.  Nothing too fancy or exciting – just your basic Thanksgiving staples. Then I headed out to the store with my list in hand. If you haven’t visited your local grocery three days before a Thanksgiving, let me say that it’s usually the best time to make both menu decisions and to head off to the store.  And by “best”, I mean “worst” unless you enjoy cuddling up to hundreds of grumpy strangers and being stuck in the baking aisle for hours on end.  And by “hours” I mean “moments”, but still it’s longer than it usually takes me to make a hit-and-run on that aisle and emerge victorious on the other end.  On that day it took me FOUR passes with the cart and I finally had to ditch it and dive in for a fifth run to finally find the pumpkin filling on the bottom shelf.  I know on Thanksgiving, that’s where I’d put it if I ran a grocery store.  I’d imagine my conversation with my hopeful underlings would go something like, “Pumpkin pie filling, Jimmy?  Son, it’s Thanksgiving, we put that on the bottom shelf where it’s easy to see! Stick by me kid learning the tricks of the trade and one day you may make assistant manager.”  And when I refer to “easy to see” I mean “are you kidding me”.  Once I ditched the cart, I found the pumpkin filling by carefully observing everyone’s movements on the aisle.  I became quite the baking aisle sleuth taking careful notes on the various suspicious activities.  Finally someone went low, really low on the shelf, and I had my big “ah HAH!” moment.  I pounced on the can and ran madly back to cart and had an overwhelming urge to spike the can on the floor and do a victory “funky chicken” around it.  If only there had been room in the store to breathe, I  could have had my dance.

Cart Barricade Dead Ahead - Pay No Attention to Actual Cart

Somewhere in the middle of one of my passes on that aisle, I had this great idea.  I’d discreetly take a photo of the shopping cart mayhem around me on my iPhone and then I’d post about the rudeness of  people who park their carts in the dead center of the aisle thus blocking the flow of traffic.  I lined up the shot perfectly and in the split second it took me to hit the capture button, I thought “oh jeez, is the flash on? There’s someone’s kid in a cart.  What if her father comes over and pops me in the face because he thinks I’m some crazy perv with a kid fetish and I’ve singled-out his daughter?” and then I hit the button and promptly freaked out.  The flash popped, but in that split second where I imagined being arrested for being a pedophile and carrying the “sex offender” label for life, I unconsciously managed to get the iPhone down for this great shot of my sad groceries.  If you look at the top of the photo, you can kind of make out the beginnings of the shopping cart barricade I was facing.  I would have tried again, but because of the flash I didn’t want anyone to see me lift the iPhone up.  Instead, I’m sure everyone on the aisle was thinking, “wow, the contents of that cart really aren’t anything to brag about, but if she wants a picture of it well good for her – Thanksgiving freak.”

One of the final items I managed to throw into the basket was the turkey.  We didn’t want to do a whole bird and were thinking of getting just a breast.  Well, I wasn’t at my usual store where I knew where they kept everything (like pumpkin filling) and so I paced the turkey section over and over again until I saw a small box that said “Turkey – white meat with gravy”.  Perfect!!  I imagined it contained the breast I was looking for and that it would have a lovely gravy to cook it in.  What I got instead was some sort of bizarre pressed turkey meat that had the oddest texture.  It was definitely turkey flavored, and it was digestible but ummm… it wasn’t exactly what we were hoping for in terms of turkey.  I was thinking something with more of a turkey consistency.  You know, like the bird instead of turkey tofu.  I can report back that Sam enjoyed it; of course Sam eats her own poop so there you go.  The beagle rating would be: Pressed Turkey thing as good as poop!  I’ll have to take her word on that.

Overall though, Thanksgiving was a success.  Food was made, dinner was had, pressed turkey thing was mocked and we gave our thanks that we were together to enjoy it.

I hope you each enjoyed your own special Thanksgivings.  I am thankful for each of you.

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I Give it a Solid “4″

Today we had a fire drill to test the new procedures in our building.  Despite most of us not taking the opportunity to view the new video on how to escape a fire, we still managed to calmly mosey over to the correct stairwell.  This is very important according to all of our instructions, because in the past we’ve had a defiant rogue element who walk to the stairwell that was not designated as theirs – I know, I know, I should have preceded that statement with a warning to sit down and grab a fan.   We slowly wound our way down and out of the building to meet up in the designated area.  The weather was lovely.  It was about 68 degrees, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. I even managed to catch up with a co-worker so I could occupy my time discussing bad movies, British comedies, and who starred in the British version of “Coupling”.  It turns out that Anthony Head did not actually appear in that show, I was personally just as surprised as you are now.  It turns out  he actually appeared in a show called “Manchild”, which I had confused with “Coupling”.  I’m glad I could clear that up for you as well.

The fellow I was speaking with is from Great Britain and I’m convinced one of the reasons he speaks to me is thanks to my amusing “provincial” American ways.  But where he may be able to speak about a life lived around the world, I can always regale him with my tales of a decidedly un-provincial existence, like that time I went to Christoval, TX . (I found the most delightful trailer home there, which sounds a bit condescending, but honestly it was amazing.  Unfortunately, it’s  difficult  to describe in a way that you would also appreciate.) It’s a great story.  Whenever he uses the term “provincial” (and he does) in reference to me or any other American he encounters he does it in such a way that it’s a gentle verbal pat on the head.  A very British way of saying, “bless your heart” without using all those extra words or requiring a porch, rocker and a mason jar filled with sweet tea.  In his mind, I’m certain I’m categorized as a delightfully unworldly colonist. Whereas he’s the put-upon English gentleman. He amuses me with his dryness, reservation and occasional begrudging patience as I flit about while inanely chattering away (made all the more inane in an attempt to increase my amusement at his polite stoic squirming – please don’t tell him it’s part of a mini-psychological test devised to see how much one person can reasonably endure.  The results so far: quite a lot.).  It’s a lovely give-and-take where I’m the embodiment of a Vaudeville act gone awry (banana peels and pies in the face) and he’s the long suffering sort desperately hoping his head won’t explode from too much senseless chatter.

After talking for a bit in the designated area surrounded by everyone in the building in their various states of, “can we just get on with this”, the signal came that we could re-enter the building.  Our lovely safety coordinators with their bright orange vests and their clipboards pressed against their chests led the charge and as quickly as proper etiquette would allow, my co-worker fled back to his desk.

When I returned to mine I saw I had a new shiny email waiting for me.  It was an invitation to take part in a “How did we do on that evacuation?” survey.  They wanted to assess my evacuation going experience. Did I feel comfortable? Was the weather the right temperature? Was it aesthetically pleasing? On a scale of 1-5 with 1 being poor and 5 being excellent, how would you rate your evacuation? It even included a comment section “How could we improve future evacuations for you?” I only made up a couple of those questions. Overall, I gave them a 4.  Hey, I feel there’s room for improvement.  Maybe if they added comfy chairs and a live band, I could see myself giving them a 5 in the future. But I do give them credit for being concerned that I had a delightful time during my brief stay in the parking lot.  Getting to annoy a co-worker while outside on a beautiful day was really just a bonus.

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True Beth North

When it comes to directions, I’m completely landmark driven.  Sure, you could tell me to go east on 3rd Street and make a right on Brazos, but it would be easier if you said something like “go towards the highway, stay in the right lane and then turn at the 7-11.  You’ll see the restaurant right next to the large palm trees and the stack of tires.”  Now those are directions I can get behind.  They’re easy to remember.  In fact, I’ll probably still remember those fake directions long after I post this piece (and not just because the idea of a 7-11 on Brazos and 3rd amuses me a bit, but because I can actually visualize it).  When you veer away from landmarks I start getting lost in a sea of meaningless words.  I know they’re your beloved streets, but they sound foreign and impossibly difficult to me.  Long lists of streets and turns or the overuse of cardinal directions blows my mind and when I receive them as a wall of directional text I feel like you’re hinting that I should stay at home.  If I have to spend more than 30 minutes of searching through a maze of twisty streets that some drunken planner, inspired by Salvador Dali, thought would be a whimsical little jaunt through cookie cutter house land, I reserve the right to call it good and drive back home. Thirty minutes is the absolute limit of my patience.  Thirty minutes represents the point where I’ll turn and bite the heads off the innocent and unsuspecting.  (A long standing joke as to why Jay and I could never participate in the Amazing Race is that there potentially would be video evidence out in the world of how shrewish I can be when faced with irritating travel issues.  Jay would come across as a poor brow-beaten and long-suffering abused guy while I would become the latest in a long line of women that America loves to hate.  See, can’t go on that show now!  That’s the only reason. My physical prowess, my willingness to leap off of things and love of decaying camel lips in stew would not be an issue.)

Another problem I have is with Beth North.  This is different from Magnetic North, True North and Grid North.  Beth North states that whichever way I’m facing happens to be North.  It’s funny until I’m facing south on a highway and I need to go east, and I accidentally take the west exit (thinking that’s the way I need to go) and end up on  “an adventure”.  Adventures that appear between quotations are usually not good for anyone in said “adventure”. Fortunately, that hasn’t  happened often.  There’s also House North.  Once in the house (or any building really), the north is in the direction of the door.  As I’m exiting the door, I am once again lined up perfectly for Beth North.  Trust me, it makes sense if you’re insane.

When giving directions, at least one friend has learned to follow my hands and not bother with my words.  My hands are always right. My mouth is not. I can accurately point to where I want to go.  I can’t always tell you (correctly) where I want to go.  Sure, I could hold up my hands and see which fingers look more like an “L”, but in the heat of the moment my vocabulary sometimes lets me down, I forget to analyze my fingers and really it’s just easier for everyone if you look at where I’m pointing.

I typically use landmarks when giving directions, but even then you need to pay attention to those identifying buildings and clumps of trees I noted and not how accurately I counted stop lights.  “Go past 3 stoplights” may mean “go past 2” or it could mean “go past 4”. It will almost always be off by 1, but if I tell you, “and then you’ll see Lightsey’s Insurance, so you’ll turn left at the street past that”, then look for that building, don’t rely on my count.  In fact, I don’t want to hear your guff if you counted stop lights and my count was off.  The fact is, you wouldn’t be here to harass me about the directions if you hadn’t successfully found the insurance company.  Plus, there’s Google Maps, Smart phones and GPS devices, so if you trusted me or you got lost for some reason it’s ultimately your fault for asking me to begin with.

The important message I want you to walk away with is, “don’t ask me for directions.”  If you do, be prepared to get landmarks and don’t rely on what I say to be in any way accurate.  North could be east based on where I’m standing.  Where’s the grocery store? Well, turn right at Best Buy, pass Sonic and the Chevron and the store will be on your right next to Starbucks. You’ll be facing north.  It’s also just east of Dell. (DISCLAIMER: Store is actually south of Dell. All directional references were used as a humor device only and in no way should be followed unless you also want to have an “adventure”.  Please refer to your smart phone or your Tomtom.)

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How to Kill an Angel

I killed an angel. Yes, I did and I’m afraid it wasn’t just one. I may have killed a bushel or a herd or a pod or a flock – flock sounds about right. Ok, I killed a flock of angels over the past couple of weeks and with that news, I hang my head in shame.

It started with my sketch writing class right after we wrote our very first sketch and then it continued when I wrote a revised version. See, in class there’s only a couple of rules and they are: “Do not apologize for what you write. Do not put down your work. When you do, an angel dies.” (When I first read the phrase “put down” I thought, “Really, I have to carry my notebook with me now? Is this some bizarre sketch writing hazing prank?”) Just to be clear, it wasn’t that I was purposefully hunting angels with my poor disposition. In fact, it happened quite innocently. We had 30 minutes to see how far we could on our first writing assignment and then BAM the time was over and it was my turn to read. Well, the laughs weren’t coming – not at all. I think the only positive sound I heard was maybe the sound of an appreciative snort, but that was it and it could have been in my head. The next thing you know, “I’m sorry” slipped right out of my mouth as I hung my head in shame. Then, I followed with “I’m sorry” because I realized I had just killed an angel. When I realized a second one had plummeted to the ground I mumbled, “I’m oh $#D D@MN!7 BAH!” and sunk into my chair mad at myself for nearly getting three before I was finished.

By the time I got home, I completely forgot about one of the rules and when asked “how did your first class go?” I shredded myself and my piece. You couldn’t get me to shut up. It was all very dramatic. Then I re-read the class rules and saw the “don’t put down your work” part. More swearing ensued. Thankfully swearing doesn’t kill angels or you could say goodbye to your personal guardians.

In class two, I made it through the whole class without commenting on what I’d written. Angels rejoiced! But on the way out of the door a friend politely asked if I was having fun. Oh boy. Those angels, who moments before had been high-fiving one another for dodging the, “Beth has something negative to say about her writing,” bullet started dropping left and right. Two improv teachers words of wisdom popped into my head. One is Tom asking “Are you having fun, Beth? Find the fun!” and then Shana, which had to do with how you present yourself to your audience after you feel like you’ve done something poorly. I guess it was a self-defense move. I didn’t want my friend to think I had any illusion that I could write and I wanted to express that I was embarrassed for myself. I shouldn’t do that. It puts people in an awkward position of having to try to make me feel better and that’s not fair.
I think there are two things that make this class exceptionally difficult for me. One is that I am the poorest sketch writer in the class. That’s not me being self-deprecating, that’s just me being completely out of my writing element. (It’s a class, we’re there to learn, blahblahblah.) I’m coming at this thing from the back of the pack and it’s really hard. My brain doesn’t think this way and where some people miss instructions like “write in first person,” I can’t actually tell you what my sketch is about. Wow. That’s a huge ego blow to find out that you don’t know what you’re writing about. I wish I had the other person’s problem of first vs. third problem. That’s easier to tackle. “Beth, what is this about?” “Kids coming of age.” “What is this about?” “Kids having an adventure and discovering a truth.” “Beth, what is this about?” “Fuck. I haven’t a clue.” “You have to know what you’re writing about or the audience won’t understand.”

The second one is that I shake uncontrollably. I can’t tell you what’s going on there. I was hoping that in the second class where other people would read my sketch that I’d be more in control (we cast the parts for the characters in the sketch and you get to hear how your words play out), but even then I started shaking. I didn’t read a single word and I was twitching uncontrollably. The hard part is I have to take suggestions when it’s over and I desperately wanted to type them into my laptop, but I physically couldn’t without drawing a lot of attention to myself, so I threw a notebook down and drove pen into paper so it would allow me to more naturally curl up. I used the pressure coming from my fist down on that pen to keep my hand steady. Even when I was cast for other people’s work, I had a slight tremble. I don’t think it was as noticeable, but it was there lurking in the background. This past year, I’ve had three performances where I’ve been on stage acting or singing and the shaking never manifested. Sure, it could be that I’m always there with a supporting cast or that the lights are dim and I can’t see the audience well, but still I’ve never shaken. I’ve never been bothered that I’m on stage. I’ve also never shaken when I’ve danced before a room full of people like in college when I was in modern dance or later on when I performed in tap shows. Maybe having been in dance recitals when I was younger created some safe pocket in my mind that said “the stage is ok” “the stage is safe”, but I’ve never felt that safe when reading. Who knows? I once asked in a class if I could just sit down, because I was making my class feel very uncomfortable from my visible shaking. There are probably several angles we could look at this from – anything from genetics, psychology, and environment to nutrition and we’ll still end up with me just being a twitchy weird individual. (It’s like living a dream! A crazy dream where I’m the sad sack everyone pities and I get supportive pats. Who doesn’t want that after stating “I want to be a princess! I want to be a ballerina! I want to be some twitchy fuck.”)

So, basically my flailing about at the bottom of the class combined with my involuntary spasms leads to angels falling from the skies. I’m sorry angels. I’m not actually gunning for you. I just get wrapped up in me and the next thing you know THWUMP. I’ll work on that. While I work on the not twitching and not killing angle, I’ll also work on giving myself a break and not abusing my work no matter how much my sketches suck.

THWUMP!

Errr… right, working on that.

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A Drought Jingle

As a people we’re usually good at putting a good spin on things.  Whether it’s the government convincing us that something unnecessary is a fine idea (DDT anyone?) or we’re trying to cover up for that family member who did something embarrassing. A tornado? Global devastation? We can make it fun!  A good PR firm knows if you can say the right thing in the right way to the right suggestible audience, you’ve potentially sold your product.  It’s similar to when you lower your voice to whisper something terrible like, “you know Frank just has the one testicle,” but instead of trying to hide it you offer up, “did you know Frank is at the next stage of evolution!  I think we’re going to be seeing more of those one ballers in the near future.  Lucky bastard!” If other people are excited about it, then we are, too!  It’s the happy train that keeps chugging forward.

We need positive spin to help us stomach the harder things in life whether we’re talking war, poverty, famine or any other horseman that joins the depressing parade that is sometimes life.  Bonus points when it’s something potentially tragic and we’re able to spin it into blaming the victim, but I’m going off-road a bit.

Here’s what I want.  I want a PR firm to take up the drought that’s devastating our state.  From here on instead  of seeing a glowing blood red depiction of our state, I want new fun colors (red and it’s little friends yellow and orange are forbidden), maybe rainbows built on blues or cheery little depictions of woodland creatures frolicking across the state with some catchy hip slogan that would work as a bumper sticker.  And a mother fucking jingle.  That’s right, I want to turn on the TV and I want  to see a dancing little cartoon singing about how awesome this is and showing the evils of water.  I want the puddles to look like vicious little wet demons hellbent on ruining everyone’s life.  Everything that relies on water (that are not human) will be villainized.  We need the ad company who worked on the roaches for the Raid commercials or maybe those guys that came-up with the toe nail fungus demon to step-up. I want them to pitch something that makes the drought seem fun and lighthearted while making the viewers want to boo and hiss at anything  with water – whether it’s rain, a meandering river or kids playing in a sprinkler.  If the American Indian with the  single tear cries  about pollution, I want viewers to sit up and see him as wasting a resource.  Maybe the pitchmen could even convince people that water is bad for you.  Sure, this might work against all the recommendations we’ve ever received from doctors and nutritionists, but if it lifts us up when the ground cracks, how can that be all that bad?

It might even have the benefit of finally selling people on the wacky ideas like water conservation or even xeriscaping.

Ultimately, I don’t care about the benefits.  I just want to feel happy when I see on the news “nine more years of drought predicted” because I have a song in my heart that makes it all ok.

Clouds make us sad
They can really turn things bad
When they take our sun away

JAZZ HANDS!

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Sketch Writing & Ponies

Me Patting a Nice Pony, Galisteo, NM

Next Tuesday I start a Sketch Writing class.  Let me tell you what, I’m a little intimidated.  First, among my friends I’m not “the writer”, that honor belongs to someone else.  I’m not even the artist or the photographer or the actor or the musician. In fact the only title I’ve managed to wrangle is “the token blonde”.  I’m not even blonde, but there you go, that’s my proud designator. I suppose it’s well-earned. I may lean towards the dingy.  At times when conversations among my friends drift into the more profound and my opinion is mistakenly solicited, I tend to make use of that opportunity to regale them with the virtues of ponies.  Ponies are nice!  You can hug ponies.  You can’t exactly hug Kant. Kant probably didn’t even like carrots or apples. He probably didn’t even whinny.  (But if he did, I’m sure Aristotle would have welcomed the company had they been able to meet. Oh funny philosophy references.  See, ponies are more universal.  People get ponies.  People don’t remember Aristotle and his friend Phyllis that much outside of a hipster coffee joint. )  So you see, Non Sequitur Pony Enthusiasts who interrupt “important” or “smart” conversations get titles like “token blonde”.

Second, while I may tell you a story on occasion, it’s always at least 95% non-fiction.  Life does all the hard work for me and then I give myself the remaining 5% to try to spin the boring bits into something more humorous for my audience.  On the occasion that I’ve tried my hand at creative writing, I’ve managed to write down a few ideas, maybe even get it started,  and find that after a full page there’s a bright shiny object to bat around on the desk.

I guess what we’re learning is that I’m too impatient to be creative.

Plus, I just really haven’t had any life experiences to draw from.  I have a dog, a couple of cats, a great husband, and some friends.  My life is by and large a calm place with the occasional dramatic dust-up thrown in for spice.  If you want to throw me out of my element for kicks, just take me out of the state and I’ll act like every person and thing I encounter is completely alien. The “Welcome to…” sign heralds sudden forgetfulness on my part for all activities you would consider to be normal. How do I order food in this new crazy upside down world? The odd little man gave me a straw for my can of soda and a napkin! What strange customs you exotic creatures have at this Kwik-E Mart universe with it’s strange spelling.  Here, let me get my camera.  Someone take my photo with this strange creature!

Preparing to Crush Montreal (Revenge for climbing Mt. Royal)

My only adventure out of the country was that time I went to Canada.  Yes, Canada.  Granted, it was Quebec where the stop signs read “ARRÊT”, but to treat it like a trip  to a foreign country feels a  little like cheating.  While there, our grand adventures included standing on top of Mount Royal and crushing their downtown with our monster claw-like hands (a camera perspective thing) and admiring their chipmunks.  And while crushing whole cities is a lot like having an adventure, we still left before we could truly admire the devastation.  In other words, it doesn’t quite count. To my friends in Montreal who still suffer from the nightmares of the gigantic hand extending down from their mountain, I offer my sincere apologies.  The only other notable event while there was me politely explaining to a friendly shop clerk that she didn’t speak French.  It was my one French phase that went beyond pleasantries,“I’m sorry, you don’t speak French.”  Of course, at the time I thought I was saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French”, bygones.  I was living the stereotypical obnoxious American “English only” tourist dream, I suppose. And really these weren’t exactly life-changing events (unless you lived in Montreal).

This worries me greatly when it comes to this class.  What will I bring to the table?  Ideas brought on by my adventures?  Clearly, no. Characters?  I have exactly one and it’s of you.  My impersonation of you is just like my impersonation of that mutual friend of ours. Of course, that’s only because you all sound the same to me and oddly enough, you possess the same mannerisms. Another fear is about people openly critiquing my work. The thought reminds of the last few times I attempted to read my work out loud to a critical audience.  I noticeably trembled.  I had tried to prepare by reading my work several times out loud before hand. I tried taking deep cleansing breaths before I read and despite my best efforts and pep talks of “this doesn’t matter”  I still shook so badly that a cat who had decided I had the best fur stroking hands of the bunch, a cat who had been purring happily away, literally stood up, looked at me and then hopped down. in  complete disgust.  The only positive that came out of those few reading experiences was that people were too worried to actually offer up criticisms.  Involuntary body spasms leave people speechless.  I guess I could always try that if I think I’ve written a stinker.  (I say “try” like  I have some sort of magic control over it. I’m so cute at times.)

But still, I’m not so intimidated that I won’t give it a try.  What the heck.  It will be an adventure..  Maybe my first sketch should be about ponies.

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I’m Also Neurotic

I’m going to come clean about something: I’m a bit neurotic. Now some of you just choked on the “a bit” part and I want to let you know I think you’re mean, I know who you are and I’m eyeballing you. Yes, that’s right. Eyeballing you. I was fessing up to my behavior to my friend April, because I knew that as a good friend, she’d sit and laugh at me. She did. However, I also knew it would be a very supportive, non-judgmental sort of laugh. It wasn’t. Deep down though, I know she cares.

The whole thing came up when I posted on a forum I never post on. I’m quite the accomplished lurker and really, I haven’t felt the need to share my thoughts. No topic has grabbed me and demanded my keen and invaluable insight (I say that tongue-in-cheek). I prefer to sit in the shadows and watch and judge like any good lurker would. Well, I got this idea in my head that I should say “hello” and introduce myself, because I thought “what the heck, that’s harmless enough” and it was, if you’re a normal person. For someone who is neurotic, you say “hello” and then you wait and wait and watch and see if anyone has said “hello” back and you count those “hellos” and compare them to the responses others have received in their “Hello” threads. In fact, you check regularly like you’ve created some new religion called “Refresh” and you’re its high priestess. You, the reader, don’t need to know how “regularly” regularly actually is for someone whose neurotic, but it’s probably 100 more times than you would check it and I’m low-balling a bit.

Around the same day that I said “hello” I was feeling spunky and decided, “I’ll invite a bunch of people out for an event!” I sent everyone a note and followed-up by also creating the event on FB to hit all of those people whose emails I didn’t have. That gave me two things to check on fanatically, wait for responses on and worry about. It added diversity to my crazy. “Did any one say hello, yet? Maybe someone has said they’re coming to my event.” On day two, the number of new people who said “hello” back and the number of people who said they would attend my event stabilized. Both numbers remain pitifully low for my taste and now the only number to watch is the number of declines that grow and surpass the number of people who actually said “yes!” or the number of new threads that were started and now bury my “hello” post. Still, ever hopeful, I check and re-check throughout the day in the hopes that maybe someone new and unexpected has said “yes” or maybe “hello”.

The act of writing about this just compelled me to recheck the numbers. I couldn’t write another sentence until I indulged this need. Although really, let’s face it, it doesn’t take much prompting. Great. Looks like a new person declined without bothering to leave a cheery note on the Wall claiming a conflict or at least feigning some regret. So hurtful. I’ll check back later.

I suppose since I’m on a roll, I should make one final confession. I compulsively check my blog stats, too. This is not actually surprising. I can’t help it. The only thing that would make this task more exciting for me would be if I could have Google Analytics collecting my data. It doesn’t just show me the raw number of readers, it shows IP addresses, domains, cities, states, and countries. I could spend long moments pouring over the data. Unfortunately, the way I have the blog hosted now, it won’t work. Curses. Now I just have the numbers, which while fun are not as fun as seeing that someone on the local newspaper’s domain looked at my blog. That information is like crack for the crazy and let me say I lived off that for a month. A little addendum to that confession, since clearly I’m the kind of person who would insanely monitor their stats, is that I “may” slightly misrepresent the number of people who look at my blog to my readers. I have a habit of always referring to you as my “10 readers”. If I crunch the numbers and am honest, I have 11. The extra one is an avid Sam fan. Thank you extra blog reader, adding you to the roster made my day! Maybe tomorrow Dad will finally join my reader roll and I’ll finally have 12. Oh, elusive 12. (Hush April, stats said post margarita at the ice cream shop, stay post margarita at the ice cream shop.)

So, there you have it. A small list of my crazy. I’d ask for responses, but then I’d just end up adding another thing to obsess over and April really doesn’t have the time to listen to a riveting evaluation of my life based on blog stats and “hellos”. She claims something about how stable people have a life.

Now to go look at that invitation.

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I Didn’t Get the Job

A couple of weeks ago I had a job interview.  I got dressed up, made an attempt to brush my hair and I even put on make-up.  One co-worker asked, “have you been out in the sun?”  No, I want my blush to say, “I’d rather be at the beach.  In fact, that’s where I was before I got here.”  I rubbed away at my cheeks to try and look more sun-kissed and less sun-scorched.

I arrived at the interview a few minutes early to show my eagerness.  Unfortunately, I was the only one.  Two of the interviewers arrived late and one dashed out the door promising he’d be nicer if we waited on him.  Who could protest? When the interview began they explained that they would take turns asking questions and one of them showed me on their list of questions where they’d circled every 3rd question so he could remember it was his.  The other interviewer chimed in, “mine are all the ones that are divisible by 3!”  Great.  Then each person took a turn asking their questions.  At one point, one attempted to ask someone else’s question and there was some huffiness as the other interviewer declared, “but that one is mine, see it’s 9 and you can divide that by 3.”

I think I did well on the first question, but a few questions in, a scuffle for whose turn it was to ask the questions and I became keenly aware of the fact that I was moving into “observation” mode and losing sight of giving any more quality answers.  I observed that one of the interviewers, who’s been known to appear in mink stoles, had something completely distracting going on with her teeth.  Half of them were brown – as if a line had been drawn down her head and it was decided that the teeth on the left would be one color and the teeth on the right would choose a completely different color.  Now every time she asked her 3rd question, divisible by 3 of course, I would stare at her teeth.  How did that happen?  Did genetics come into play?  I wasn’t trying to be cruel; I was actually fascinated by the science.

“Have you ever worked with different levels of staff?” I’ve worked directly with the deputy treasurer for the State of Texas who was also Governor Ann Richards’ campaign manager, I’ve worked with various community and business leaders around Austin, TX and I’ve had dealings with “Claudia Taylor’s” staff.  Heck, I’ve even sat in a car for several hours chatting with Bobby Seale when I helped bring him to my college campus. In fact, there is no one at the place where I was applying that would be higher on the food chain than some of the people I’ve assisted or had dealings with.  So, my great answer was of course, “I work directly with my manager and ummm… I uhh… well, I’ve dealt with their supervisors when asked.”  Look at those teeth!  I think the bridge of her nose is a bit collapsed and those bangs form quite an awning for her brow.  What percentage of our genes do we carry from Neanderthals?  (Yes, now I was in full-blown distraction mode with a hint of cruelty thrown in because I was floundering badly and trying to make it ok.)  “ummm yeah.”  Yes, I really did complete one of my answers with that profound thought.

The next question came out (incidentally, it was not divisible by 3) and my response to it began with, “I have an interesting story!”  Part of my brain looked at the other part and snorted, “really? You have an interesting story?  This is going to be your great response? Please tell us you’re not seriously going to do this?” and the other half defensively replied, “yes! It’s really interesting!”  Yeah, it wasn’t that interesting.  In fact, as I enthusiastically recounted my “interesting” story the part of my brain that was against the whole thing to begin with sat back and frowned noting each polite smile and stunned look on the interviewers’ collective faces.  The looks that said, “do we really have to jot this down?”

One of the final questions was, “why do you want this job?” Now, we all know the answer to this one.  This is where you talk about how excited you are by this particular job, what you’ll bring to it and how you’re the exact right fit.  In fact, when you saw the posting you knew the two of you were meant to be together. However what I said, in a complete fit of crazy was, “it pays more than what I currently make.” And then I smiled at them – a crazy, satisfied little smile, because I was convinced in that moment that I had delivered the best answer EVER!

Fortunately, that was towards the end and the last divisible by three question, so I was able to thank everyone and bolt out of there hoping I’d never run into these folks again.

When I got out, I immediately called by good friend April and recounted the whole thing – all the bad responses and the amazing half head of brown teeth.  We now have a deal that before any interview she’ll prep me, because clearly I lost my little mind. She promised she’d help remind me of “how awesome [I] am.”

Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.