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Posts Tagged ‘Atlanta’

Dear Friends and Family,

This time last week, I was on a cruise. I didn’t pay the exorbitant fee for ship WiFi, and I was thus blissfully unaware of Leon and his band of Hitler youth interns hijacking the Treasury. Among other things. 🙄

Oh those halcyon days!

Anyway.

What kind of cruise?

Chris Jericho’s Rock ‘n’ Wrestling Rager at Sea.

Listen: I grew up in Georgia. Y’all know I’m a redneck.

Wrestling was a part of my childhood. Dusty Rhodes, the American Dream, was like kin. One of my first crushes was Robert Fuller, whose tag-team partner was Ted DiBiase, the Million Dollar Man.

All Elite Wrestling is the best. It’s far superior in storylines to World Wrestling Entertainment. It’s like a soap opera featuring sweaty men. And one of the best characters is Chris Jericho. He understands the assignment.

Jericho is on the right wearing a onesie featuring cats and tacos.

Jericho also fronts one of my favorite bands: Fozzy. Fozzy performed on the cruise, along with a bunch of other bands.

Wrestling AND rock music? It’s the perfect combo for me. I’ve been wanting to go on this cruise for years.

Pre-trip, people would ask where the ship was going. I answered, “I don’t know. I don’t care.” Turns out: Puerto Plata, DR. Fine. I was there for what was happening on the Norwegian Gem.

In addition to Fozzy, the lineup featured the return of Great White. Yes, THAT Great White. They have a new singer. He’s very talented and VERY young. Was DEF not alive during the band’s first go ‘round.

The singer bears a striking resemblance to 20-hour Tina’s daughter Elsa.

Others: Kuarantine (another Jericho-fronted band, this one focused on KISS covers of the no-makeup years), Guardians of the Jukebox (all covers), Excitable (a Def Leppard tribute band), Nocturnal Affair (a screamy metal band), and — another favorite of mine — The Hot Damn!

Love them. Listen to “I Didn’t Like You Anyway” or “Automatic.”

And then there was the wrestling.

Ricochet and Komander put on an acrobatic show. This isn’t your dad’s wrestling extravaganza.

There was at least one show per day along with photo opps, autograph sessions, podcasts and random other events — events like a belly-flop contest.

Here’s Will Ospreay with his stellar attempt.

As you are all on a boat together, you could find yourself riding the elevator with Toni Storm.

Or passing Turbo Floyd of the Outrunners in a hallway.

He’s right out of the ‘80s all the time!

Or standing in line at the bar with Jesus.

What was hilarious later is that Fozzy has a song called, “Drinking with Jesus.” The crowd was SO EXCITED and lifted this man up to the front. Sadly, Jericho didn’t even notice. Missed opportunity, I say.

As for drinking, I started the cruise still doing Dry January. Friends, that is a rough choice. ROUGH. Especially when I hear fellow passengers say things like this about their own drinks:

“I’m drunk, and I can tell that’s strong. Got DAMN, that’s strong!”*

But I made it.

And I didn’t get crazy on the trip, either. Unlike others. Look at Will Ospreay’s face after a night of drunken karaoke:

Let me tell you: Cruises are GREAT for people watching.

On the last day at sea, my traveling friend and I sat and watched people for hours. I asked him if he was going to get a chair massage like the dude next to us.

He said, “Absolutely not.”

I said, “Why not? You liked the last massage you got.”

He said, “That was in a nice relaxing cave. This is on a ship surrounded by weird people with Great White doing a sound check in the background.”

Fair enough.

Five days, four nights of events tailored to my interests? Yes, please.

I mean, JUST LOOK!

I’ll tell you this: It was the first time on this cruise, but it won’t be the last.

Who is coming with me next time?

Let’s go!
Beth

*Yes, “got damn” with a “t.”

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Dear Summer,

Listen: I know plenty of people like you. We were all conditioned to like you because that is when we finally got a break from school.

But imma** be real with you: I hate you. You can GTFO.

I don’t like to sweat. It’s why I prefer exercising in the water.

I don’t want to lie in the sun and bake.

I’m not a fan of wearing shorts.

I moved to the Pacific Northwest where I was promised clouds and rain.

Yet here you are, Summer. Coming in hot.

Literally.

It was above 100 degrees for a few days last week.

My office is on the third floor of an old building with no air conditioning.

My house does not have central air.

Many places here do not have AC.

Why? It was never needed.

Now it is.

For you MAGA idiots who “do your own research” squawking that climate change isn’t real, let me tell you something:

It really f—ing is.

I have a degree in meteorology. For real.

(Ok, I’m breathing. Deep breaths. In with the good air; out with the bad.)

Anyway, no air.

When I got here and noted this travesty, people said to me, “But Beth, you are from the South!”

Yes, and we have air conditioning everywhere. In fact, the AC is so strong that you keep a sweater in your car just in case.

Not here. I even took the usual sweater off my naked cat so he could stay cool.

It’s not over yet. Tuesday will be hot too.

And I remember last year when we had 107-degree temps for a week in August. Fun.

So, Summer, please go. Fall, you’re the one that I want.

Kthxbyeeee,
Beth

*Glenn.
**Stealing from kids today.

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Dear St. Anthony,

I’d love your help in finding the parking access card, building fob and door key for my Airbnb.

Veronica the Cleaner took a pic of the bundle last Sunday to show that the guest returned it.

But when Amit checked in Friday, it was nowhere to be found.

There were no guests in between.

Unless I hosted ghosts. Or aliens.

I try to offer a five-star experience, so I set to work to try to fix the issue, even though I was in Savannah trying to spend some time with Gideon on his spring break.

The fob was the immediate concern. Well, the property manager only works Monday-Friday, and she was off Friday. NO ONE ELSE can distribute them. Fob is a no-go until Monday.

I still needed to get a new access card and key and to change the code on the lock.

I have friends in Atlanta, but that’s a big ask.

As I was flying through Atlanta on my way back to Portland, I decided to see if I could extend my layover.

The noon flight was sold out. Standby didn’t look promising. The 3 p.m. would get me there at 4, but my PDX flight left at 7.

Three hours to get out of the airport, run these errands, and get back through security?

My blood pressure is skyrocketing just thinking about it.

ANXIETY INTERLUDE.

I could either sit in the airport fretting for hours or get on the road.

I canceled my SAV-ATL flight and rented a car.

I have two sayings:

Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want.

Bad decisions make good stories.

I got quite an experience and a story.

All was well until I entered Atlanta’s orbit. I am from Atlanta. I know traffic.

We always say, “Atlanta is an hour away from Atlanta.”

This was worse than almost anything I had ever seen. Add one hour to the journey.

Peachtree Street was a hot mess.

I mean … WTF?!? Seventeen minutes to drive 2.6 miles.

I got to the condo, grabbed the extra set of keys, and found a hardware store. That was the easy part. PASS!

Next I tried to change the code on the door lock. Somehow, I have the wrong programming code saved in my phone and no tools to take off the lock to get at the info inside. FAIL.

I went to the parking garage to get a replacement access card. The person who can do this works Monday-Friday. NO ONE ELSE can distribute them. Of course. FAIL.

So if you are keeping track, you can tell that I got virtually nothing accomplished. I wasted time, money and energy.

I am a glass-is-half-full person, so let’s look on the bright side:

  • I earned Skymiles and Expedia OneKeyCash on the car rental. Clearly that’s better than keeping my actual money. 🙄
  • I got to test drive a Subaru Forester. It’s THE car for folks in the Pacific Northwest. I’m trendy!
  • I got to catch up with my friend Jennifer on a two-hour call. Two hours! Y’all know that’s huge for me.
  • I met Amit, who is lovely, and now has a brand-new door key. Hope he gives me a good review. I did go the extra mile. 😉
  • I got my heart pumping thanks to road rage. Can we call it a Traffic Tantrum? (My agita!)
  • I really got to SEE Peachtree Street. Never paid much attention to most of the buildings before.
  • And also Peachtree Center Avenue, onto which I detoured.

Then I had to race to the airport.

It was … not a fun trip. And not productive. But at least I tried.

Tony (if I may be so bold), it would be great if you could somehow make the wayward items turn up during Amit’s stay.

Speak to the aliens, please. Have them beam them back down.

Thank you!

Your pal,
Beth

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Dear Tracy and Brian,

Just when I had about given up on humanity, you came along.

Even during a time of personal grief, you did the most lovely thing.

You gifted a stranger VIP tickets to Shaky Knees.

I hate that you experienced a loss. I hate that you had to cancel your trip to Atlanta for Brian’s birthday celebration, and thus the stay you booked in my Airbnb. But instead of reselling the wristbands, you (amazingly) sent them to me.

I will be honest here: I had never been to a multistage music festival.

Given my love of live music, it’s really surprising.

I’ve seen “Trainwreck: Woodstock 99.” That’s like “Halloween” (i.e., a horror movie) to me.

But your generosity pushed me out of my comfort zone.

My friend Jennifer was up for the adventure.

I really didn’t know what to expect, besides lots of music and people.

Lovejoy on the main stage: Peachtree.
Here’s Spacey Jane at the Piedmont Stage.
Illuminati Hotties at the Criminal Records Stage.

And among 40K people, what is the chance I would run into someone I know?

Very high, apparently.

Look: It’s Renee and Brian! Renee and I worked together in Atlanta.
The swanky wristband had many perks.

One of the biggest perks to me was the use of air-conditioned bathrooms in an RV-type structure. No porta potty for this lady!

Another perk: Free beer and water.

You know what else was free? People watching.

Let me say that I have mad respect for people wearing whatever the hell they want to wear.

Unlike this brave girl, however, I prefer to keep my bum covered unless I’m at the beach. And even then not so much.

I enjoyed seeing a medley of concert and other kinds of T-shirts. This one was my favorite:

I also loved that parents brought their older children (12-16 or so). As someone who indoctrinated exposed her children to music early on, I approve. (My kids’ first concert was The Police.)

Jennifer and I packed in as many bands as we could.

Be Your Own Pet
Cypress Hill
Rickshaw Billie’s Burger Patrol
Joey Valence & Brae
The Front Bottoms
Trash Panda

All put on a good show. And I know most people were there to see Muse, The Lumineers, Hozier and The Killers.

People love The Killers.

But I was there to see two artists:

Peaches, in all her weird envelope-pushing glory (Yes, that’s an outfit featuring many breasts)
And Tenacious D

Those two made the festival worth it for me.

Though I’m not a fan of crowds, everyone was well-behaved.

We had a great time!

So thank you for your generosity.

I hope you will be able to make the trip next year. And if you do, I owe you a deep discount on your stay.

Thanks again!

Your new friend,
Beth

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Dear Bob,

Listen, friend: We need to have a talk.

You were one of my favorite teachers in high school, and I’m thrilled we reconnected when I lived in Atlanta.

But you have scared the bejesus out of everyone with your recent emergency.

I realize that taking a group of students to the Galápagos Islands — a trip that included snorkeling — was too appealing to be denied.

However, when loads of people in the group got a stomach virus, did you HAVE to be an overachiever and get an extreme case? Of course you did.

This was your lovely wife Susan’s status update over the weekend.

Emergency surgery, scary-low oxygen levels, infection attack on numerous organs — that’s just a fraction of the issues you faced.

The good news is that you are awake and asking for sweet tea from Chick-fil-A.

So that means you are on the mend.

It’s about time.

Keep up the great work!

Love,
Beth

* Thanks, Toy Story.

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Dear Friends and Family,

So let’s recap quickly:

Howard and Jeanne adopted me and loved me fully.

Mom breathes in that new-baby smell.
I was a daddy’s girl. Completely.
I know I don’t seem happy and grateful in this photo, but I was. Later. 😉

I loved them and didn’t dwell on the thought of my birth family.

However, I will cop to entertaining fantasies of being surprise royalty. You know, “Princess Diaries” style.

We were the only ones in Atlanta. Dad’s family was in Pennsylvania/New Jersey and Mom’s in Missouri. (This becomes important in the next installment.)

We visited each family roughly every other year. I read books in the back of the car and alternately wanted a sibling and was glad I didn’t have one.

I grew up. Went to college. Graduated. Worked in journalism. Got the letter. Put the letter away. Started dating Eddie. Got married. Had kids. Searched their faces for any scrap of me. Found very little. (Eddie’s genes are strong.)

But sometimes it was there.

Gideon stars as the saddest baby in the world.
The only pic of Dominic where I can actually see a little of me.

My parents were always there. Rock solid.

But they didn’t take care of themselves. Their health declined. Mom passed in 2009, Dad in 2017.

For Christmas 2017, Eddie got me the best gift ever — a gift that keeps on giving.

It was an Ancestry DNA kit.

I swabbed and sent.

The results came back in the middle of a family tragedy. It was a much-needed bright spot to find a second cousin (Laura) with genealogy as a hobby.

I sent her that letter.

Not only did Laura know who my mother was, but she was going to see her the following month. I learned I had a half brother and sister.

So that was … a lot.

Laura met up with Kathleen and gave her photos of me and my family, along with my contact information.

For her it was … a lot.

Time passed as we both adjusted to the idea.

On this exact day (New Year’s Eve) in 2019, I decided my New Year’s resolution would be to write to my birth mother. I used my good stationery and employed my best handwriting. Sent it off once the holidays died down.

A few days later — Jan. 15, 2020 to be exact — I got a call from a Missouri number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t answer it for three reasons:

  1. I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t know.
  2. I hate to talk on the phone.
  3. I was serving as Secretary in a Brookhaven Chamber of Commerce meeting.

I let it go to voice mail. Then I took a look at the transcript (Visual Voice Mail).

"Hi Beth, this is Kathy, your birth mother ..."

You know that falling scene in “Vertigo?” Yeah.

Scary!

But it was also exciting.

I called back (because of course I did). We set up a time to talk properly.

And that brings us to Part 3 of this journey.

Until next time …

XO,
Beth

*In case you didn’t get the reference.

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Dear Friends and Family (old and new),

As many of you know, I’m adopted. I was adopted when I was about six weeks old. (“Fresh baby! Get her while she’s pink!) I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents said they would help me look for my birth family when I was ready.

I was never ready when they were alive.

It felt like it would be disrespectful to them to search. Also, what if my birth mother hadn’t told anyone about me? Showing up on her doorstep would be a bit of a surprise — and likely not in a Prize Patrol kind of way.

I had great parents. Howard and Jeanne loved me, and I loved them. I had a normal middle-class childhood: We lived in a standard subdivision of ’70s split levels (say that three times fast) outside of Atlanta, and I went to public schools but a private college (scholarship, FTW!). We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. No abuse. (Unless you count all those times I got whacked with a fly swatter because of my smart mouth. And I certainly don’t.)

Some of my friends were adopted too, and we commiserated about what it must be like to actually look like someone else or see some of your behaviors handed down from a parent. My parents often looked at me like I was a zoo animal because I had so much more energy than they did. They were sedentary people. And y’all know I am … not.

Still, my friends weren’t so keen to search either. It’s a big thing. Rejection looms large.

All I knew about my birth mother was that she was a very young college student and didn’t feel she could care for me at the time.

When I left college myself and started thinking about starting a family, I wrote to the adoption agency to see if I could get any medical information. It felt important to find out if I had a family history of cancer, heart disease, diabetes (“The Shugahs” if you are from the South), etc.

They sent back a few pages of typed social information: birth parents’ first names, general background, number of siblings, physical features, college education, circumstances surrounding my conception and birth, etc.

Then, the kicker:

My people, I was not ready for that. I folded that little letter back up and tucked it into a file folder. There it stayed for nearly two decades.

And even now as I try to explain what has been going on over the past few years, I realize I have to stop here for now.

This feels like a four-part series: Beginning (this part), Discovery, Meeting Mom, Meeting Dad.

Stay tuned. (If you are interested, that is.)

XO,
Beth

*Credit to Harry and the boys.

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Dear UPS,

You SUCK. Truly and completely.

Scenario:

Gideon left his glasses at a friend’s house. Friend and friend’s mom sent them back via UPS. They never arrived. Tracking number came up as “invalid” on phone searches. A computer search turned it up in Alpharetta. Where? I don’t know. This is all the information I had:

Left at the front desk WHERE in Alpharetta? Friend and mom shipped from Brookhaven to Gideon in Savannah! (Note: Brookhaven is 20 miles away from Alpharetta, and both are more than 270 miles from Savannah.)

So I filed a claim.

A month went by with no answer.

I emailed you.

This is what you said:

Shan K., I can ASSURE you it was not delivered to the address.

I wrote back. (I TRIED to call, but was hung up on TWICE.)

Then Ana Z got involved.

  1. The delivery address was correct. I confirmed that with friend and friend’s mom and THE ACTUAL RECEIPT.
  2. They sent it from Brookhaven. The package ended up in Alpharetta.
  3. There are EIGHT UPS stores in Alpharetta.

I called ALL EIGHT stores looking for a Richard who was working there in March. The LAST store I called was the only one with a Richard. He happened to be working when I called.

Oh, yeah. It’s right here.

He confirmed that the address was correct. And then CHARGED me to have it resent.

Why? Because the package was sent originally from a different store. UPS stores are franchises. So Alpharetta is not responsible for Brookhaven.

So to recap:

  1. The first driver was lazy as hell. (Mailing address was accurate.)
  2. The claims process is a joke. (No updates/information.)
  3. Your customer service is beyond laughable. (Didn’t actually do anything and gave conflicting information.)
  4. I’m out $11.68 and time out of my life to deal with this hassle. (Evidence of your sucktitude.)
I paid the ransom money, and it arrived Friday.

YOU should have tracked down this package for me. I should not have had to call EIGHT stores to find one with an employee named Richard. And I want my $11.68 back.

Never again, UPS.

Sincerely,
A Former Customer

*Sorry, Stevie.

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Dear Dominic,

You may look like your father, but your personality is all me. And that’s why we drive each other crazy. You know what buttons and borders to push.

When you want something, you don’t stop until you get it.

That’s me too.

Take, for example, a car.

I told you I needed something to drive when I’m in Savannah. You took it upon yourself to find me something. In Atlanta.

Well, to find yourself something.

Lucky for you, I’m a big fan of muscle cars like this.

I had the dealer FaceTime me. As soon as he started it up, and I heard the signature purr of the engine, I was sold.

So I did cancel the second leg of my flight to buy it and drive it down.

But I didn’t tell you that. I told you I was getting a rental. So when we went out to get in “the rental” to go car shopping, you were shocked.

The good news for me is that this maneuver ensured you wouldn’t forget Mother’s Day.

$1. Funny kid. 🙄

I love you, you silly boy.
Mama

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Dear Mean Girl,

You actively sabotaged me.

You lied about me to ruin my reputation and stall my career.

You friended me on Facebook to gather information then defriended me when your nasty work was done.

But I guess I should thank you.

In the words of Christina Aguilera (whom I never thought I’d quote):

After all you put me through
You’d think I’d despise you
But in the end, I wanna thank you
‘Cause you made me that much stronger.

I met up with someone recently who knew you when you were just starting out. You did the same thing to that person that you did to me.

So I know it wasn’t personal: You’ve got a history. A pattern. A way. It’s like that parable (and song) about the snake: “You knew I was a snake when you took me in.”

It’s sad, really.

It’s hard enough for women to succeed without other women dragging them down.

Being in a leadership role is not like having pie: Some for me doesn’t mean less for you.

Anyway. Our circles no longer intersect, and now I’m better off.

If you hadn’t made my life miserable, I wouldn’t have focused on finding new opportunities. And I now love my job.

So thank you.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.

Best wishes and warmest regards,
Beth

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