Category Archives: Random Thoughts

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100 Photos Before June

Chillin' by Big Blue Mess
Chillin’, a photo by Big Blue Mess on Flickr.

I have only confessed this to a couple of folks; I’m afraid of my camera. Sure, looking at it excites me, purchasing accessories for it makes me happy, but when faced with taking it outside I get anxious, then I tuck it away and grab my point-and-shoot. A month or so ago I was so relieved to find the batteries had died. Well, can’t take it out like I wanted to, no batteries you understand. Then when I tried to get the right batteries, my excuse was, “well, the rude teenager at Radio Shack didn’t want to make the sale, and I can’t get batteries anywhere else, you see”.

Admittedly, for me part of the problem is that my 35mm SLR camera uses film. The film part adds all the stress. Once I’ve committed to a shot, that’s that – there’s no flipping through the photos and deleting the ones I can’t stand. There’s no checking to see how it looks to see if I need to retake the photo. It’s taken and then it’s over. I’ve committed. No backsies. Then I have to take the film to the photo processing place (whoever is still left) and say a silent prayer for a day or more that I’m able to get at least one decent shot. I could have over/under-exposed every single photo and I won’t know until I’m opening up a little envelope looking at the photographic carnage that I had hoped would be my artistic shots. The pressure!

Now an acquaintance from high school had this brilliant idea, that I could set a goal and take 100 photos before June. Since it was before May, I believe, that he suggested this it seemed completely doable. I don’t think I even had to use the 35mm; it could be anything – just start taking photos until I was comfortable. He even offered to review the photos and give me tips. (He has had photos published online and in books. He’s hand-down one of my favorite photographers and having him offer to critique my work is a pretty big deal. He also mentioned Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers with its 10,000 hour rule (the idea being that the key to success in any given task is to spend 10,000 hours doing it – a theory my Dad has often talked about).  His advice was to just start taking the photos instead of whining and worrying.  Apparently, whining and worrying while not taking photos will not necessarily improve the quality of your work – or so they say – sounds like pop psychology to me.

I had a great opportunity this weekend when I went to East Texas to see my Dad, learn more about permaculture and see it in practice (Dad is doing some amazing things with his land).  Lots of ducks, ducklings, chicken and geese to see along with the bee hive, the orchard and various fruits and vegetables growing. We then headed out to the family graveyard for the Memorial Day celebration and potluck – with the old church, the graveyard and family I haven’t seen in years. I very purposefully left my real camera at home – nothing to take pictures of there! My excuse was, “well, I’ve taken photos of everything I want to take photos of out there. I have my iPhone if anything interesting appears.”

So, here it is – an iPhone photo at the family cemetery (don’t ask, I have no explanation – I mean, your family graveyard doesn’t have a fridge chained to a pole? What is wrong with you?) and one of only a handful of photos for June.

I think we’ll have to work on 100 Photos by August. I’ll have to come up with a new excuse on why I didn’t accomplish this feat since I did finally purchase the batteries (and not from an obnoxious Radio Shack clerk). I’m sure I’ll think of something.  Of course, I haven’t put them in the camera, yet so that’s a good excuse start. Baby steps.

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Right As Rain

First, a quick aside.  I hate Adele.  Yes, the singer.  It’s not really her fault, but there you have it.  Until this morning,  I couldn’t name a single Adele song, although I know I’ve heard her music on the radio.  I think she has a great voice.  I use the word “think” because I have no idea what she sings, but I know she won a ton of awards.  So, I’m trusting the opinion of the masses who helped her win all of those Grammys. Good for her!  Sing on you little golden throated warbler!

Where she and I got crossways – I tried to find a clip from The Matrix on YouTube featuring the character The Oracle.  Every time I entered my search parameters: “right as rain matrix” “matrix right as rain” “OMG really not Adele again matrix”, there she’d be -  Adele staring back at me.  I “grrr’ed”, she stared.  I “grrr’ed” more menacingly, and she stared some more.  It turns out it’s hard to intimidate a photo.  I conceded, “you won this round, Adele” and shook my fist at the monitor then dropped the whole “right as rain” from my search and added “cookie”.  “TAKE THAT, ADELE!!!  Haven’t written a song about a Matrix cookie, have you? HAH! I win! In your face!!”  I’d spike my mouse on the floor in celebration, but Jay would stare and blink then politely ask why that seemed necessary.  That would lead to me incomprehensibly blithering about Adele and ultimately end in more blinking and staring until he concluded I was insane and it would be better to just turn around.  “You may look away, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that Adele is a menace! A menace I tell you”  I can already hear the, “hmm” that would follow that bout of crazy.

Anyway, back to The Matrix and the real reason I was posting.

A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I am The Oracle among my friends.  Well, if you take away the wise, clairvoyant, encourages balding children to bend spoons, and love of floral house dresses bits.  The two of us are practically twins.  I mean, I like cookies.  She likes making cookies.  You totally see this, right?   Where I got this idea? A friend of mine was recently having a hard time and my first thought was, “you know what? I should send her cookies”.  See, we have a great cookie shop here in town called Tiff’s Treats (they’ve also recently opened shops in Houston and Dallas) who deliver warm cookies and milk to friends in need.  It’s my go to whenever I hear someone is really having a bad day, because we all know cookies fix everything especially if they’re warm and accompanied by some cold milk.  For a little extra, they’ll even add a balloon.  Now, how could that not get your day back on track?  (In the past, I’d send balloons – those floating mylar ambassadors of joy then Tiff’s opened and its been cookies ever since that day.)  Granted, I’ve sometimes had to decide if the person in question and I are  at the cookie stage of our friendship.  Those can be tough decisions. Sometimes it’s apparent  ”we’re more Snicker Bar snack treats from the candy jar friends.”  If we’re not quite that close, an email with a photo of cookies (or balloons) and some nice thoughts will do.  But, if we are cookie pals and they’re in the Austin delivery area, fresh-baked cookies are ordered and sent.

Now, the most recent person in my life having a rough time would not give me their address. I don’t know if they were so distraught that they thought my request for their address was really a request for their phone number or they didn’t want to tell me what name they were using at the place they were staying.  (I’m not kidding on that part; I know someone who uses different names.  Don’t ask.  I don’t.  It frees up brain space for thinking about ponies.)  So, she had to remain sad and cookie-less.  This is tragic.  How can one endure the sad without two dozen hot cookies ready to cheer them up and some cold milk with which to wash them all down? (Aside, not ending sentences in prepositions makes for some goofy sounding sentences even if they are technically correct.)

So, here’s what I say to you: If you’re having a bad day, you’re in the Austin area and you need cookies, make sure I have your address for both work and home.  I promise when you’re done eating them, you’ll feel right as rain.

YoutTube video link (sadly, can’t embed)  - Have a Cookie

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Super Cool

My friend DeAnne sent an email out today that linked to a great blog post titled “You are Super Cool” along with a YouTube video.

What DeAnne didn’t realize (until she started reading my post) is that her timing was impeccable, because this weekend I convinced myself I was exceptionally un-cool.

It all started Saturday morning while getting ready for the singing improv class.  I was dressed, I had taken Sam outside and then I plopped down to look at Facebook to get a hit of funny before hopping into the car.  Instead of finding the funny, I found a new photo of someone who had insulted me on several occasions in an improv class.  “What if she signed up for the Laura Hall thing?  She probably did,” I told myself. “I bet she manages to work in an insult in a song and you’re going to have to smile, because you’re pitiful. You don’t have a backbone.”  “I bet this isn’t even a beginner’s class.  In fact, I bet every professional singing troupe member in Austin will be there and you will fail in front of them and they will loathe your presence and pray you leave at the break.  You don’t deserve to be there.  You’re pretty worthless.  Remember, no one ever thought YOU should be in troupe.”  It didn’t matter that I’d talked two people into signing-up or that when one of them had doubts they signed-up anyway after I reminded them that they absolutely should be there; that they were great.  I continued to beat myself up, “you realize they don’t really want you there either, don’t you?  You’re odd and you make people uncomfortable with your presence.  Why do you have to be so weird and off-putting? Why don’t you have more friends? Why don’t old friends want to be around you? It’s pretty obvious. You are too disgusting to be around.”  I was suddenly my intoxicated and bitter grandmother on a bad night.  The words that repeated in my head, throughout the day, “you do not deserve to be there.”

There was a rational side arguing in my head, too who took on the face of one of my teachers and one of my friends.  “Beth, you’re brilliant.  I wish I could say it in a way that you would believe me when I say that to you.” “Beth, you have every right to be there.  You’ll enjoy it if you can just make yourself leave this house.”  “Beth, you’ve got to leave the house now.  You will be ok.  You will be safe.”  I stared at the rationale side suspiciously.  “Beth, you know if you don’t leave, you are actively choosing to spend the day filled with sadness and regret.”  I told myself, “I’m ok with that, because I do not deserve to be there; it’s a class for people better than me” and then I spent the day being self-indulgent and nursing my cruel side by beating myself up with every negative thing I could whip out.  It was a day filled with deep self-loathing and weeping every time I moved. I finally decided to just sit still and stare catatonically at the TV.  I now know more than I ever thought I would about the Amish and I did successfully polished off Season 2 of Downton Abbey.

I think what made matters worse; I didn’t have anyone around to talk me off this particular ledge.  Jay worked that day and I wasn’t about to send him a load of crazy in an email.  I imagine there would be nothing worse than being trapped at work and thinking, “my wife is having a breakdown”. A friend I might have called, I didn’t; she has to deal with my crazy all the time, she should get at least one weekend off. So, I sat and made myself feel miserable all day.

The next day I had to go to the theater and instead of lying about why I missed class, which had been my big plan, I offered up “I psyched myself out”.  This was accepted, but there were a couple of disappointed sighs along with reassurances, “you should have come; it was ok.  People asked about you.” They were absolutely right.  I should have gone.

Sam being hugged and telling me she thinks I’m pretty darn cool. (Or it could be: Sam hoping I’m saying something about food or rabbits, but I’m pretty sure it’s the “cool” thing.)

The thing about it is there is a part of me that knows I am actually pretty cool.  You can ask Sam.  She’s an excellent judge of character. I just sometimes forget.

I also deserve things – like going to a class I’m incredibly excited about.  That’s not going to happen again.

I hope you all never forget how super cool you are and if you ever do, I’ll be there to remind you.

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Sketch Highs and Lows

For a week I’ve been high on a bit of praise I received from Esther’s Follies.  For those outside of Austin, Esther’s is a bit like our very own Saturday Night Live.  Their shows have been running non-stop Thursday – Saturdays since around 1977.   Recently, they (along with The Onion) hosted a sketch writing contest and I went ahead and submitted a sketch.  My thought was, “the only way to definitely not win is to not try”.  This is the rallying cry I use when talking myself into most things – good and bad.  “The only way to definitely not know what the red ‘Do NOT Push’ button does is to not push it.”   You know the sort.  The praise I received was, “this is very funny” and had a couple of suggestions to make my sketch work on their stage (apparently, you cannot expect actors to crumble into dust before a live audience – clearly their actors aren’t truly dedicated to the craft – lazy creatures!). They then reiterated that they really liked the sketch.  I was drunk on the praise.  Here’s a group that I’ve gone to see since the late 70’s with my Dad.  The place we’d show-off whenever an out of town guest crossed our city’s limits and here they were saying I was funny. Oh you! You guys are funny!

The contest ended Sunday.  I knew I wouldn’t hear back and I’ve really tried to cheer myself up with “hey, you got some fine praise”, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was disappointed.  I was completely in love with the idea that my sketch would be performed on their stage.  How cool would that have been?  In my fantasy, my sketch writing class heroes and I then formed a sketch writing troupe. A video montage played in my head featuring photos of an assortment of performers, stages, and YouTube clips along and the occasional shot of all of us laughing hysterically and our delighted audiences. There may have even been people cheering my name and a guest spot on The Daily Show.  My Belushi-esque downfall would still be years away.  The highs and sad lows of a week.

To add to those lows, I really tanked in sketch class last night.  In class, we go around the room and there’s a group reading of your sketch.  You assign your parts and you get to hear how it plays out.  I had two sketches read – one where the assignment was based on a real life event and one where we created a musical number.  The one I wrote based on a real event went over like a big gigantic craptastic turd.  Well, the event it was based on was a big gigantic craptastic weird turd to begin with, but I had lamely tried to make it humorous by switching up a few details.  Let’s just say it played like it did in real life.  The first comment after the last line was read was a big, “WHAT?!?!”  I knew I should have gone with the story about the blind date who took me to the AA meeting.

The musical sketch I wrote was a parody of Glee using characters from Game of Thrones.  No one in the room had ever seen Game of Thrones, so I spent most of the time trying to explain who the characters were and what the gags were about.  I used the Glee theme “Don’t Stop Believin’” as the song the characters would sing at the Westeros Regionals.  After explaining that Westeros wasn’t actually a real place, I realized I should stop before even trying to explain why the Dothraki Secondary School kids would be scantily clad and whinnying.   Before we even started reading/singing the sketch, I just wanted to lay my head down on the table.

For your amusement, I’m including the first draft.  A couple of notes:  It won’t make sense if you’ve never seen Game of Thrones. It’s also a first draft; I haven’t re-written it, yet.  I’m actually not sure what I’m going to do for a re-write – maybe the character The Hound will sing a version of “Get Happy”.  As a first draft, I decided I was completely cool with it not following a rhyming scheme necessarily and having it stray a bit from the original song.  I’ll stop there since I’m about to kill an angel.  As you recall, we’re forbidden from doing this in class (or outside).  It happens when you apologize for your writing.

First, let’s start with the Glee version of the song to get you in the right mindset.

Now, the first draft.  Did I mention it’s a first draft? It’s not polished?  Be kind. (Oh, and about the HTML code – well, it wins today.  I’m too lazy to figure out the spacing problem at the moment.)

SEVEN KINGDOMS REGIONALS

INT – HIGHSCHOOL AUDITORIUM – DAY

A brightly colored banner bearing a stag on each end declares this is the “Westeros Seven Kingdoms Regional Competitions”. Several groups of teens cluster around in their school’s groups, each with a kid holding a standard representing their respective high schools. “Winterfell High” – the kids are dressed in white with fur lining theirnecklines and cuffs. “King’s Landing High” – blonde, beautiful and tanned students who all look eerily similar wearing the finest couture – the glint of rings, necklaces and pearly whites reflect in the spotlights . “Dothraki Secondary School” – the teen boys strut around without tops and wearing only shorts – the girls are also scantily clad. The Dothraki sporadically whinny. Finally, “Nightwatch High” – reform school kids that appear to be hard on their luck without a budget for matching outfits. They stand around and sulk.

The crowd favorites, Winterfell High, assume center stage. Their stars NED and CATELYN STARK step away from the group as the orchestra begins to play the opening refrains of “Don’t Stop Believin’”. They smile as they look at each other, and then face the audience to begin their duet.

NED

Just a small town girl,

Living in a frozen world

She took a late night ride goin’ anywhere.

CATELYN

Just a man, they call The Hand;

They tried to kill our Bran

He took a late night walk to uncover the truth.

NED

A eunuch in a sun-filled room.

The smell of lies and stench of doom.

In a whisper he will point the way

To my destiny.

 The rest of the Winterfell choir moves forward and takes center stage.

 CHORUS

Houses scheming, for a throne of swords.

No need for cushions, hemorrhoids.

The kids don’t look like you, what’s a king do?

They’re all blonde, yay inbreeding!

The chorus line throws their thumbs in unison over their shoulders to point out the choir from King’s Landing. The kids from King’s Landing High scowl and quickly cover the ears of the younger choir members. Ned and Caitlyn come together and then dance away. JON SNOW steps away from the Nightwatch High kids and takes over the mic.

JON SNOW

Working hard to guard the wall.

Don’t want to take a fall.

Trying to fill my time.

And not worry about Bran.

(singing defiantly to Catelyn)

My step-mom, she’s a shrew

I can see why he strayed from you.

I took the black, now the White Walkers come.

CHORUS

Don’t stop with treason.

Grabbing the throne is still in season.

Whispers in the night.

CHORUS

Don’t get attached.

Ned Stark’s head becomes detached.

Everyone in the story ends up dead.

JON SNOW

Don’t start moping

There’s more to come; the plot line’s open

I get a girlfriend in the end.

Jon Snow shoots a smile at the kids from King’s Landing, then adds.

JON SNOW

… and Tyrion is my friend.

Jon walks away from the mic, high-fives a young dwarf standing among the King’s Landing kids.

CHORUS

Don’t Stop!

The crowd goes crazy with applause and gives the group a  standing ovation. At the judges table a heavy-set balding man covers his mic while whispering conspiratorially with a small squirrely, well-dressed man as they score the performance. Their nameplates read: VARYS and LITLEFINGER.

FADE OUT.

And that’s how I went from an incredible montage-filled high to a “I think I’m quitting sketch” low (and how I worked the word “eunuch” into a musical number).  I’m really trying to listen to Jay, although he’s filled with crazy ideas like, “Beth, you’ve only been doing this for how long? Three months?” This whole “it takes time” “you get better by continuing to write” thing is annoying.

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Rites of Passage

I was born wearing glasses. The full head of hair, the colic-y cries and the thick plastic framing my unopened eyes made me easy to pick-out from all the newborns in the hospital’s nursery. “That one is ours!” It made for an interesting delivery story.

I had my first eye surgery at age 2, the second at 4 and the third at 9. In fact, by the time I reached 20 and my fifth surgery (albeit the final two weren’t eye related), I had enough surgeries to feel like the hospital was just our family’s poor idea of a fun get away. Sure, I hadn’t been to Disney World, but I had this marvelous get away to St. David’s Hospital where I played a rousing game of checkers with my nurse while nibbling on bland Jell-O. Now who’s envious?

You’d think that by now, I’d handle glasses more gracefully. You’d be wrong. Thanks to some perverse label maker who decided that printing important things like “Directions” or better still “Warnings” in a 5 pt. font was cool I had the pleasure of visiting my ophthalmologists recently. Thank you perverse label maker. I had been quite happy with my 20/30 vision for years now, but 5 pt. font labels were now fuzzy black squiggles.  They probably only said “don’t take 100 of these at once” or “don’t lick this” if I could only read them.

After a few tests, where my spunky little doctor made my eyes do some tricks. (Thanks to those early surgeries my eyes make for an interesting study), she cheerfully declared, “it’s time for bifocals!” Yay. Go me. I asked what my vision was and got the good news, “your distance is 20/30, but up close it’s 20/70.” I complained bitterly about the unfairness of it all and pointed out my husband’s 20/15 vision. Apparently, his good vision has no impact on mine save that he can read all the small words without aid. Show off. She consoled me with, “now you can get rid of the magnifying glass.” My Sherlock Holmes impersonations, too I suppose.

I pouted. It took a month to get the prescription filled. The eyeglass sales person promised I would hate them for weeks – they might even give me headaches. Headaches you say? Sign me up! She finally added, “well, it may not be that bad.” Needless to say, when they called to announce my glasses were ready, I dragged my feet. If they’re ready on Saturday, they’ll still be ready on Wednesday I reasoned. I went with the progressive lenses, because yes I’m vain enough that I don’t want a line across my eyes. A line announcing to the world my eyes were even more special that originally thought. That was beyond my ability to cope.

I’ve had no trouble adjusting to them. No feeling like my feet are 100 miles away while going down stairs. No headaches. I can even read all the small words as promised; however, I’m still not overly keen on them. Sure, you can’t tell they’re multi-focal lenses, but I know and deep down the world knows, too.

Since I’m apparently stuck with these forever I have only one request.  Well, if you don’t count being used as plant fertilizer.  My request is that when I drop dead could someone finally take these things off my face.  Feel free to cast them on the ground and do a little dance atop the lenses on my behalf.

Yes, I’m still in the adjustment period.

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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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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.