Category Archives: Me

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I Also Hate Square Dancing

“I was traumatized by square dancing.,” I declared in response to a friend who had innocently suggested we “allemande left” to get into a restaurant’s parking lot. I realized the moment she offered to let us “mosey left” instead that I had a story to share.

There are actually a few social activities I absolutely can’t stand. Bowling is among them. Sure, I didn’t always hate it. There was a time I gave it a chance, and then I joined a league with the misguided thought, “this will be fun!” In twelve short weeks I lost all willingness to ever walk into a bowling alley again. I have a ball, a bag and shoes. Heck, I even have a matching bowling shirt declaring my name is “Roxie”, because really who wouldn’t want to be “Roxie”? (Ok, I confess I never wore the shirt to the league, but it did match everything I owned in all its hot pink and black glory and I have bowled in it.)

But this isn’t about bowling, this is about square dancing – the ridiculous social dance that I hate with such a passion you’d swear I was carrying on about bowling. The one that makes me spit just at the phrase “dosey doe”. Just try to “swing” me. I double-dog dare you.

When I was growing up our gym activities consisted of jumping over things, running in circles, climbing ropes and attempting to make it up peg boards using chunky wooden dowel rods. When we acted like reasonably civilized beasts, we were rewarded with a bounce on the trampoline. Good times. All were part of our public school’s physical education program. That same regimen also included learning important folk dances like the “Bunny Hop”, the “Hokey Pokey” and square dancing. Clearly some crazy person in charge of minors was hell-bent on throwing us all back into their 1950’s glory days dream where people had fine names that combined nicely with “Sue” or “Joe”. (Later, they tried to throw in names that went well with “Wayne”. Nothing good can come out of a “Wayne” and thus several notable serial killers came into the world. Cautionary note to new parents: avoid “Wayne,” but I digress.) In 1976, the year of our Bicentennial, our 2nd grade class participated in a school-wide celebration in the gymnasium. We wore our best patriotic outfits and square danced our little hearts out with the rest of the school. Nothing really says 1950’s independence in the 70’s like a good ol’ fashioned Virginia Reel at the elementary school. That was a simpler time, when square dancing was fun and our clothes were flammable.

I still liked square dancing reasonably well when I entered 7th grade, but I didn’t like much else. This was the year we moved back to Dallas and I was plagued by bullies who tempted me with such enticing offers as, “if you ride the bus tomorrow, we will kill you.” I became an accomplished walker and an even more accomplished dodger. In 7th grade, walking down the hall was a challenge; I was constantly assaulted by kids I didn’t know. I’ve been joking today that I have “selective mutism” and if that is actually true, it started in 4th grade, but really got locked-in here. Yes, there was a time when I was outgoing. A time when I was constantly moved around the class for talking and acting out. After the 7th grade, my teachers never had a problem with me. It was a pivotal year.

Every day of the week I’d suit-up in my PE finery and Monday through Thursday we’d do the normal things you’d expect to do in PE. However, Friday was special. Friday was the day we’d square dance and do the Bunny Hop or the Hokey Pokey. On that day I was filled with anxiety and complete dread. It wasn’t the square dancing that was the problem, it was the mandate that you had to find a partner. If you didn’t find a partner, you had to repeatedly write a shame filled paragraph about your failure. Approaching people was a horrifying ordeal since I was never sure who I could trust. (My bullies had an endless supply of friends and every day heads would turn as I made my way through the jeering gauntlets that led to my classes and my locker. Yes, I get it. You’re barking and howling at me. I’m the ugliest thing you’ve seen – like a dog.) Fortunately, I stumbled on a partner in the form of a kid named Robert or Richard or something. He was tall and socially awkward; a male version of me sans the bullies. Every Friday in gym we’d meekly approach each other and quietly agree to be dance partners. At least, that was the case until the new girl came. She was cuter (no one barked at her), gregarious, not a hint of awkwardness and on her first Friday in class that brazen hussy just ran right up to Robert or Richard or something and declared he’d be hers from that moment on. He was smitten. I was aghast. Couldn’t she see that Robert or Richard or something was MY partner? I had dibs. I had shyly called them when I stared at his feet that very first Friday. Heck, I was even growing a little fond of what’s-his-name.

Well, our gym teacher declared that not having a partner, even if there weren’t an even number of kids, was a punishable offense. On that Friday when SHE came into class and I was left without an unremarkable guy whose name started with an “R” to call my own, I was sent to another room away from the more successfully partnered kids. I was then given a few sheets of paper and directed to copy down a paragraph that was written on the chalk board. The paragraph basically declared that I was a loser and that because I was a loser I was having to write a paragraph about it. The paragraph was much wordier than that and definitely more humiliating, but that was the gist of it. I managed to write about 25 of those before the class let out and earned a “C” for the day..

So now, when I think of square dancing, it throws me back to a time where I’m standing completely alone against a wall – all the boys are taken including Robert or Richard or something, thanks to some cute, outgoing newcomer. Then I remember the shame of being escorted out of the gym to write, “ Dear Mrs. Evans, I am an embarrassment to myself and this school. I will endeavor to…”

It’s safe to say I hate square dancing. I may even hate it more than bowling, or Houston.

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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.

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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.

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That’s One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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No Ads in 2012!

Yesterday, I learned something exciting and fun – that there are ads attached to my blog.  Who knew?  Well, apparently some of you did.  You’d think I’d know this, too since it is my blog, but I had no clue.  You see, when I view my blog it’s completely clean and ad free.  So, huge apologies if you thought I was promoting brie filled crescent rolls yesterday.  That certainly sounds lovely, but I’m more a sausage wrap kind of person.  Those who know me should have immediately noticed and said, “Brie.  Brie? That’s so uptown. Beth is more an Easy Cheese girl, this can’t possibly be her doing.”  (Thank you Jerry for recognizing that I’m really  more Kraft Singles (blech) than Brie.)

My goal is to have those removed in 2012 or, in other words, on payday.  Yes, Christmas shopping is preventing me from providing you with much needed ad relief.  Darn that Christmas!  In the meantime, enjoy some brie filled croissants!

My croissant-free view (left). Your delicious pastry-filled view (right).

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Blog “Wisdom”

It seems like every time I find a new blog, I also find another author dispensing advice on how to write.  It makes me feel like I’ve really let you guys down by not sharing my own bits of writing wisdom.  Yet, I applaud you all for continuing to persevere without my keen insights.  Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t share my very own list that you could learn from and use to grow into better writers.  As the self-proclaimed Queen of run-on-sentences and comma splice errors, I feel like I’m clearly the authority on this subject.  I’m also the Queen of Sarcasm, I feel I need to spell that out since sarcasm isn’t always easy to express in writing and I don’t want you to have read the first few sentences and thought, “wow, she’s really pompous”.  I mean, I am actually pompous, but in this case I’m just being sarcastic since I can’t offer you any actual wisdom on this subject.   I will make this promise to you, though – I won’t tell you about the proper use of “their, they’re, and there” or “your, you’re”, because I figure if you flub that, you typo-ed and everyone makes typos – in my case, blame Jay for failing at his editing duties.

  1. Write with your audience in mind.  Your audience may be your Aunt Gladys.  Write to please her.   In my case, my audience is anyone who knew me before and during college.  This includes a large chunk of family and friends.  It’s where I tell anecdotes (sometimes theirs), since this is what they like to hear in person.  I’m an exaggerator.  I add meaning to insignificant events for the sake of a better story. Anyone else who chooses to read my blog is just a happy bonus.  I tend to avoid politics and religion, because that’s not the purpose of this blog and my mother taught me that there were certain conversational taboos. I’m also quite rabid in my beliefs (especially politics) and you don’t really want to read some crazy rant that would be high on vitriol and low on humor.  The only time I will venture there is if I bump into a politician or something interesting happens in a church.  Like the time at Anna’s wedding where Anna (or maybe her husband Jonathan) said, “I do” and Anna’s priest responded with something along the lines of, “if you say so.”  That response made those vows memorable and caused a ripple of snickers throughout the church.  See, a church anecdote is born!
  2. If your goal is to be a writer, then practice writing at least 30 minutes every day at the same time of day whether you publish it or not.  I cheat, since my blogs are written in the same style that I would write a letter so I spend 30 minutes a day writing letters.  I need to follow my own advice, though.
  3. If you want your audience to be chubby middle-aged women who knows way too much about geek culture, just leave a comment and I’m sure I can think of more specific advice on how to draw-in more readers like me – God help you.

I’m assuming that most bloggers are hoping to get a small amount of popularity, because we all get a thrill when someone aside from Aunt Gladys finds us and are willing to follow us along our written journeys.  We write for our own purpose and  hope for some connection as proof that we’re not alone in our thoughts.  I guess, for me, I don’t want some homogenized blog reading experience and I sometimes feel that I’m alone when I read “Do’s & Don’ts of Writing Your Blog”; it seems like others want a more uniform experience.  I enjoy the blogs I read because they’re different – each person telling their own story in their own specific way.  If everyone told their story in the same way, what a boring place the blogosphere would be.  So, that’s why my advice is basically: write for the people you want to attract to your blog and write every day – don’t worry about everyone else unless you really do want to be the next Dooce or 1000 Awesome Things or The Blogess and in that case read every Do and Don’t you can get your hands on and get fired from your job for writing satirical pieces about your co-workers and have the national media cover it (seems extreme, but I have faith in you if you’re truly committed to your dream).

Aside: I now get to mark this off as my writing task for the day. Woo hoo!  Yes, I used you all for my own personal growth.  You’re welcome.  Errr I mean, I dispensed wisdom.  That’s it.

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Hanging Out with the 1%

Saturday night I attended a formal dinner to help out a friend who needed a buffer at her company’s Christmas party.  She’s fairly new to Austin, doesn’t know a lot of people thanks to her demanding work schedule and because of improv and my overbearing insistence that we become friends; I was the one person she thought of to invite. Apparently, at last year’s party she had been somewhat shunned and she wanted to avoid that by inviting someone fun.  Still, she chose me.  (Well, I can be fun if catty is fun, and if catty is indeed fun, I’m a laugh riot.)  She promised that I would see how the 1% live.

I’ve worked in non-profits long enough that I’m not easily awed or impressed by the 1%.  When I see them glad-handing about, I only see philanthropic marks; future donors who should consider a few planned giving options along with becoming major donors.  They make me hungry to return to the non-profit world with some data mining tools so I can sniff out their potential giving ability.

We arrive at the museum they’ve rented for the evening. There are several caviar and sushi tables set-up that I can’t quite negotiate my way to, but I do see tons of people gobbling them down.  I curse myself a bit, because snacking on free stinky and salty fish eggs seems like a fun thing to have on my list of life experiences.  I vow that next time I’ll partake as I’m shuttled around to shake hands with tons of people whose names I forget as they’re spoken.

The company has flown people in from around the country to attend this event, so I get to meet several people from Los Angeles and Chicago.  I also get to enjoy the old, “I’m trying to hear your accent”. A phrase you often hear from non-Texans.  It’s followed by a delighted giggle and a, “oh, there it is.”  I smile indulgently, the same smile you would bestow on a three year old who has placed all of the blocks into the correct box and is applauding himself – the patented “bless your heart” smile.  She then declares, “we really don’t have an accent in Chicago, it’s such a shame.”  And I have to correct her with, “yes, you actually do – it’s ok though, it’s a common misconception Midwesterners have.”  Well, they do and really, it takes some balls to treat the natives as charming little sideshows thanks to their accents.  I also endure one polite sleight about my outfit.  I am told my “sweater”, which it was not, is “so very delightful and festive” in that way that you’re fairly certain the word she is searching for is “quaint”.  I narrow my eyes and smiled while saying, “thank you” and hold back a, “your face is delightful and festive!” (It’s my standard childish retort to remarks I find exceptionally disagreeable.)  Aside from those two encounters, everyone else is perfectly lovely.

We get to our tables and find that all of the women at the party have little bags that say “Pucci”.   The name doesn’t register with me at all and I mistakenly think this is some sad Gucci knock-off brand. We open up the gift bags and inside are purses and scarves.  One of the husbands leans over and laughs, “you women and your purses, you can never have enough”.  Let me stop here and say that I have maybe a handful of purses to my name.  One is my every day purse, the other is my “we’re going to a festival I need this to go across my body” purse, and the third is my “I hope I find something that goes with this because it’s cool” purse.  Oh, and I suppose there’s the purse that I recently made.  I live in jeans, t-shirts and a pair of Clarks that I love.  I’m not a girly-girl.  The last pedicure I had involved a healthy amount of blood, so those are avoided like the plague.  My one adventure in fake nails lasted about three days and I removed them by hand, leaving away something quite scary in the way of nail beds. I don’t know name brands outside of the bigger fashion houses and I haven’t a clue what anyone else is wearing beyond the broader labels of “dress” or “shoes”.  Pretty much, everyone should just be thankful I get dressed and brush my hair daily.

The women around me begin cooing as they pull out their purses to admire them.  I leave mine in the bag, because I see the others and they look like purses.  I know what purses look like – handles, flaps, fasteners with maybe some pockets on the inside.  Purse.  My friend leans over and cajoles me into pulling mine out, so I indulge her as to not appear to be rude.  The whole while I’m thinking, “yes, here is my knock-off Gucci purse – it has grommets and metal hoops – looks like a purse – oooh, and a hideous little scarf, too”.  As soon as possible, I dump the purse back in the bag and set it under the table.  The women around me continue to coo and other women come over to show off their purse treasures. I try to adopt the demeanor of the overly excited women around me, “oo, yours is brown! Oh, did you see? Hers is multi-colored!” I die a little on the inside.

About that time, the company’s execs start handing out the company awards for best little achievers during the year and those awards include multiple cars.  My jaw drops as they call each person up to bestow “a Mercedes Benz” or “a Porche 911”.  My friend leans over and whispers that a few of her co-workers received multiple-million dollar bonuses that year.  My jaw continues to sit on the floor and I start wondering about this knock-off purse and dopey looking scarf I have, although I’m still not properly impressed by it.

At the end of the night, after the lobster salad amuse-bouche “on a Trisket” as my friend declared and four courses of food with expensively paired wines that I will never be able to afford on my own  I’ve gone from “I can’t be impressed” to “holy fucking shit”.  Suddenly the bag of candies my supervisor handed out for Christmas and the store-bought cupcakes at the office Christmas party seem like incredibly insulting crap.

The evening finishes with dancing – women in their finest couture gyrating to rap music with their husbands dressed in their tuxedos and cowboy hats trying to emulate their idea of Texans. (For the record, a true Texas gentleman will remove his hat before entering a building.) It made for quite the sight – images forever burned into my brain.

I drop her off at her place and that’s where she shares, “that’s a $3,000 purse.” What?!? I had just carelessly tossed it in the trunk and it had been rolling around back there for a bit.  “Mine is around $6,000.”  Let me clear that up a bit, because I had to look it up once I got home.  The retail value of my purse is actually $1,500 and hers is $2,000, which is still holy shit are you kidding me expensive, but not quite “it can feed a whole 3rd world country” shocking.  I mean, it’s just a purse.  Granted the leather is really nice and there’s lots of chain mail on it, and I guess nothing says class like chain mail, but still. I also learned that Pucci isn’t a clever knock-off name for Gucci.  Who knew? Well, aside from all of the purse hounds seated around me. And to think this company gave one of these to every single woman who attended the event.

I have to say my range of emotions runs from shocked to completely appalled at the decadence.  It’s just a purse.  I mean, do you carry it or do you need to put it under glass and invite visitors over to view it?  And I can’t help but think that there are people out there who are cold and starving, and here I have a stupidly expensive purse that I got just for being a guest at a dinner.  How are people ok with living like that?  We won’t even talk about the scarf which is more expensive than the Christmas budget I allotted myself this year.

So, let me say wow, I’m blown away that this is how the 1% live.  Such a completely alien universe.

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Iced Tea

It’s been said that Dr. Pepper is the table wine of the South, but if that’s the case (and I’m not arguing against it) then iced tea would have to be the water.  Every meal is usually accompanied by a cold glass with its condensation building up and slowly dripping down to form a nice ring around the bottom.  If you’re coaster-less, a bit fidgety (like me) and find the conversation dragging, you can also use it to entertain yourself by creating interesting watery patterns on the glass or table.  There’s rarely a meal that goes by, especially when we’re out dining at a restaurant, that my companions and I won’t order a glass.  In fact, the bigger the glass the better.  I’d even be ok if you just set the pitcher down in the middle of the table so we don’t have to trouble anyone for refills.  Heck, just throw a straw in that thing.

I remember standing in Manhattan once having just ordered tea and being completely befuddled as to why someone handed me coffee.  I didn’t feel like fussing about it, but I did wonder what to do with this rather hot small cup.  It took me a long moment before my brain clicked in and said a few things: You’re north of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Tea also comes in “hot”, too.  I think you forgot your overalls, Bethy Sue Bubba Jean.  I was later able to nearly duplicate this same experience by sitting in a restaurant in Greenwich Village and specifically asking for an iced tea.  Ok, it wasn’t exactly the same.  I got a look like I was trying their very soul with my request and eventually I got my iced tea. I still marveled that the refills weren’t coming.  I mean, surely there were pitchers of it lying around nearby like the restaurants at home, right?  No honey, you’re not in Texas anymore.  This was the early 90’s and that’s when I fortunately discovered Snapple and used it as my Northeastern tea substitute.  It was nothing like tea (at least the flavors weren’t back then when you were just a twinkle in your parent’s eye), but it also wasn’t like coffee, hot tea or soda; drinks I wasn’t interested in at the time.  No iced tea, but you have Snapple up here?  That’ll work.

Earlier this week a friend of mine took me to a new favorite restaurant – a nice little Cuban place that had received great reviews from the local paper.  We sat down and they handed us a menu – one menu.  The waiter apologized and explained there was only the one menu for the entire restaurant.  Since we were the only customers (clearly because we were ahead of the lunch crowd) we rolled with it.  When we opened it up we found the menu was hand-written.  No problem.  The writing was legible.  My co-worker apologized and explained that the last time he’d been to this place, they had several menus and they had in fact been printed.  We chose one of the nine items listed and that’s when our iced tea arrived.

The waiter sat down the pint glass and I literally just stared at it unable to speak for a long while.  I worked through my mental checklist: Did I order beer?  Specifically, did I order Bass? Am I still in my own city? Could I be on vacation?  When every question came back with “no”, I pulled the glass over to me to investigate the contents more closely.  The liquid was a lovely amber, there was no ice in it (thus, in my mind it couldn’t be tea) and the glass let on that the contents were room temperature.  I threw a straw in it and had a sip.  Mmmm nasty, but it definitely had its roots in tea – maybe a great grand leaf had once made a lovely tea and this was its idiot offspring, bless its heart – grand leaves these days, you just never know how they’re going to turn-out once they head down the wrong path.

My co-worker was appalled and offered to leave upon seeing my expression (sometimes I lose control of my face).  I decided we should stay, because this had the making of some sort of adventure (it turned out not to be). Plus, the food was what had earned the praise not the tea.  The food was actually fine if you had Tums and something to bludgeon the rice out of the hardened square shape (it was molded to look like the first step on a Mayan terrace – at least I’m pretending that was the artistic motivation behind that thing).  By the time we left, having still been the sole customers in the restaurant the entire hour we were there, our waiter had never come back by nor had my co-worker’s tea been refilled.  (I didn’t have that problem; it was gross. No need to refill my glass, thank you.)  We vowed never to come back and that was largely based on the bad “iced” tea experience.  You see here in the South and Texas, which is South-lite, iced tea is a fairly serious matter; it’s our water.  If you screw it up (like say, you don’t put ice in the “iced” tea or ever refill the glass) then it might kill your restaurant.  I’m not saying that’s why there were no customers, but I do have my suspicions.

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The Season of Giving

There are many wonderful and worthy charitable organizations in desperate need of volunteers and donations so they can continue to move forward with their missions.  The ones that are closest to my heart deal with injustice or cruelty to either people or animals.  You can tell a lot about a a society by how it treats its people.  You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat their animals.

Today I’m going to focus on animals, thanks to a story a friend passed on to me last night.  As a small disclaimer, I want you to know that while I’m not quite a PETA fanatic who wants you to think of fish as “sea kittens” in an attempt to get you to stop eating them, I can get quite passionate on the subject.  I’m one of those people who have a hard time with headlines dealing with animal cruelty, like a recent story about gorilla smuggling or any number of local articles sensationally detailing acts of senseless hostility towards animals.  And don’t get me started on humans encroaching on wildlife habitats and the subsequent conflicts that usually leave a species devastated, because then I’ll likely start ranting about the importance of ecosystems.  No, I don’t care that you don’t feel that particular endangered newt is important nor that you can’t see how this newt plays into a much larger story that could impact you.  (Aside: A woman told me recently that the wildfires that destroyed thousands of acres here in Texas was due to an endangered toad people weren’t allowed to destroy.  I thought it had to do with the extreme drought.  Silly me. I stared at her like she was about to start drooling at any minute and two extra heads were going to burst forth from her body.)

In the range of what I think falls under cruelty is animal testing especially on large mammals.  (Please, test all the venomous snakes you want.  I am 100% ok with that).  I had heard from Sam’s physical therapist that beagles (of which Sam is one) were frequently used for experimentation.  The gist of the conversation was how I should be glad they could fix Sam’s knees because there were people out there crippling healthy beagles in order to learn how to make mine right again.  Great! Bust out the party balloons.  You maimed an animal for Sam.  Needless to say I was appalled and by the time I got home, I was in the throes of a serious rant. I just don’t believe that they couldn’t find a reasonable amount of animals who had injured themselves to practice their surgical techniques on and thus were forced into slashing the ACL tendons of healthy beagles.  Of course, I may live in a world of moonbeam slides and fairy clouds.  If so, then I’m very happy here.

That being said, the article I was sent deals with a rescue group called the Beagle Freedom Project.  This organization helps to place beagles who have never known a world outside of a crate into a home with a family so that those dogs can live the rest of their days as dogs.  Here’s a video of one of their recent rescues:

I’m also fond of Austin Pets Alive! whose mission is to eliminate the killing of companion animals.  Then there’s also Hound Rescue who took great care of Sam before we knew her.

While these organizations are particularly close to my heart there are many more out there (some aren’t even animal related).  So, if you’re trying to think of a way to give back to the community while you’re out doing your holiday shopping, please remember your local charities.  Whether it’s with the gift of a monetary donation or through volunteering your time, you’ll be helping that group achieve its mission.  Plus, you’ll walk away with that warm fuzzy feeling that you’ve helped give a little back.

And if you do help a beagle, Sam will wag a little extra this holiday season.

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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.