I have a terminal degree in my field, work in higher education and wear suits/dresses to work (even in the age of COVID-19).
You’d trust me to teach and mentor your college-aged children, right?
But under the collar of my professional lady clothes, my neck is red.
Proof:
I’m barefoot even as I write this. When we lived on a lake in Savannah, I could go days without wearing shoes. I never let myself get Jiffy Feet, though. That’s gross.
I used to drive a crappy Ford pickup truck. Stick shift. So old the shine was gone from the paint. I recarpeted it myself. Sometimes when Eddie drove it, I’d roll down the window and stick those bare feet out of it.
Give me a beer over a cocktail any day.
I don’t have anything against boxed wine.
My favorite summer outfit features a concert T-shirt and cutoff jeans. (Not Daisy Dukes, though. I have kids.)
Dear Tony (perhaps not your name in your hummingbird circle, but this is what we call you):
Thank you for giving me a magical moment. I sit on our balcony every day, watch you at the feeder I set out only a month ago, and try to be still so I don’t scare you.
Today, you flew over to me and hovered directly in front of my face for at least 30 seconds.
I didn’t dare to breathe, even though I was squealing inside.
I could hear your wings beating.
I felt the wind from the flapping on my face.
After you satisfied your curiosity, you moved off a bit to the side, and I took your picture.
We assumed there were more of you, but pretended it was just you: our friend Tony. As it turns out, it may just be you. Apparently, you and your kind have excellent memories and remember your favorite nectar spots.
Lending credence to the theory of one, you feed every 10 minutes or so. So I set my stopwatch when you visited, then stopped it when you came back.
Apparently, you can recognize the person feeding you by sight and voice.
So maybe you just wanted to get a better look at the person feeding you.
It’s Day 16 of captivity. I’m finding ways to amuse myself.
For example, I created a pandemic playlist. Y’all know I love a good playlist, and there’s something for everyone here.
I watched Tiger King, along with most of America, it seems.
Yes, it’s really the batshit crazy train wreck everyone says it is.
Someone posted a genius Bingo card for it.
This is what my card looked like after 30 minutes into JUST ONE EPISODE.
I had a virtual happy hour with Goat Yoga Lisa. And 36-hour Tina has planned one for Wednesday. During our chat, Lisa mentioned that her photos from St. Patrick’s Day 2019 showed up in her Facebook feed.
Lisa: There I was, in crowds! Standing close to people! Drinking other peoples drinks! Me: Those halcyon days.
The family has laughed plenty playing board games.
I wish I could remember what the answer was for this Sensosketch.
I’ve done my spring (and summer and fall) cleaning plus all the laundry. I’ve been cooking nonstop. I even made egg salad — something I don’t often make because I hate peeling eggs.
The pollen has given me a headache and sore throat, but I’m still obsessively taking my temperature just to be sure.
Warning: This post contains graphic images of a dead animal.
Dear Eddie, Dominic and Gideon,
Thank you so much for giving me the best Christmas gift ever: a taxidermy class at Rainy Day Revival down the street. It is the gift that keeps on giving, as I learned two things:
I really like practicing the art of taxidermy and not just admiring it.
It appears I’m good at it.
You know I’ve been trying to take a taxidermy class for years — since before we moved to Atlanta. The ones at Graveface kept getting cancelled as they didn’t fill up.
Not so with the RDR one: It sold out quickly.
Revell, the man in charge of my hair, and I have similar interests. His boyfriend bought him a seat in the class for Christmas too!
We practically rushed into the room as soon as it opened. Revell chose a fluffy black bunny, so I picked the one across for convenience.
The instructor, Nina, had us start with painting or staining our plaques. Then we had to massage our still-partially frozen yet “ethically sourced” rabbit. (No, I don’t know what that means. Various websites say various things. I didn’t ask. Ignorance is bliss.)
Here’s my rabbit, Roger (of course), lying in state — massaged and thawed.
Next we had to turn our rabbits inside out to remove the skull.
You would think this would be gross, but all the Borax we put on them helped dry things out. Plus, you know I watch plenty of medical and forensic reality shows.
Nina came by to check on progress and gave me props for not popping the eyes and keeping my lids intact.
See! I’m a natural!
Nina then announced this, which is something I never thought I’d hear:
Once you take your face off, stop: We’re going to take a break.
So we took a break.
Revell and I had fun with our gross puppets.
After the break, we made a new skull out of the kind of foam stuff that goes in the bottom of funeral arrangements. Apropos, no?
Roger starts to look more like himself again.
But see how his nose is a little mushed in? I got the bright idea to plump it up with some clay. Nina’s mom, who helps with the classes, was skeptical. Then she saw the end result.
Oh! You were totally right! That looks much better.
I’m an artist, I tell you.
Once we were done, we lingered in the shop waiting for Nina to mount them on our plaques. (Power tools + expertise = much quicker to get through all 30)
I had plenty of time to admire the wares — and dream of bigger projects.
Finally, Roger and I were reunited.
It will be two weeks until he “cures” completely and his bandages come off.
And you three will be forced to look at enjoy him in a place of pride at home.
So thank you for this gift. I had a great time, and I’m proud of myself.
Every time we stay with you, we have something to laugh about. From Petra trying to fatten us up like Thanksgiving turkeys to Patrick disappearing in the middle of the conversation to go to Home Depot, it’s always an adventure.
On Thursday, I walked into your house with the family. Patrick took one look at me.
Him: What’s on your pants? Me: Serial killers. Him: Is that a band? Me: No. Real serial killers. You know. Like Charles Manson.
After I tagged along on the guys’ outing to see “Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker” Friday (the bros and a bra), we discussed the finer points of some key deaths. (No spoilers.)
Ryder went back into the vault to describe Obi Wan’s death like this:
His towel dropped.
I laughed so hard, I was wheezing.
(Ryder then asked if he was going to make it into my blog finally. Yes, my young padawan.)
Mia, who has a competitive streak like her father, did not want said father to win the Uno game Friday.
She turned to me, sitting next to Pat as I always do.
Her: You got something for him? Me: I do.
She plays a color she knows I have. I throw down a reverse. She wins the game. We high five, because she won and not Pat.
Evil. I love it.
Saturday, Petra and I were having a serious conversation about the deaths of our fathers and subsequent guilt.
Here comes Pat to vacuum right behind her.
Petra and I looked at each other. Shocked. Then started laughing because OF COURSE HE HAD TO DO THAT RIGHT THEN.
Then last night, we all played a Pictionary-like game called “Buzz Draw.”
Naturally, someone yells out “penis” if anything is remotely phallic. (Like there is ever going to be a penis prompt on a family game card.)
Gideon drew “winter.” He thought at first that no one got it.
Mia: I said ‘winter’ a long time ago! Pat: But I yelled ‘penis’ at the same time.
Speaking of penis, your dog Angus took an unusual interest in me.
I feel like I need a restraining order. Counseling at the very least.
Here he is rubbing his slobbery toy all over me under the table.
It’s better than what he usually rubs on me. (Hint: See theme of the game above.)
Perv.
Anyway, thanks for letting us stay with you this weekend. And thanks especially for the laughs.
Have I mentioned how much I appreciate you? You put up with my — how shall I put this — “projects.”
You know my motto as a writer: Bad decisions make good stories.
Take, for example, one of my most notorious adventures: The now-defunct Redneck Games in Dublin, Georgia. My posts about that event still get plenty of hits.
And then there were the chickens. Trish was the best pet, though, and I was very sad when she met her untimely end.
So when I said I was trying to plan a Southeast tour for a U.K. band, Jesse’s Divide, that I had seen and loved, all of you did your thing: a shrug, an eye roll, a sigh — whatever fit your usual shtick. But because you love me, you came out to support these chaps at one of their shows.
And every one of you said, “Beth! They’re really good.”
YES.
I KNOW.
Why else would I do something so crazy, so outside my comfort zone?
Don’t answer that.
Anyway, thanks to the JD guys and all of you for believing in me. I still can’t believe it really happened.
Here are Nick, Simon and Rob in my house playing Uno with my family and me. Surreal.
Now go listen to all their stuff on Spotify, iTunes, etc.
Dear People Who Don’t Understand My Love of Bad Taxidermy:
First, you don’t have to understand. You don’t live with me. (Unless you are Eddie, who does have to live with me and spends most of his time rolling his eyes and sighing.)
Second, what’s there to understand? I think it’s funny. Maybe you don’t. Fine. I don’t judge your love of period dramas and pumpkin spice brisket. (That’s a thing, right?)
Third, if you must know, I can trace it back to early 2014. Eddie and I were chaperones for one of the boys’ field trips, and we were waiting for the school bus to arrive. BuzzFeed put out a listicle of top 10 examples of bad taxidermy. Eddie and I laughed ourselves to tears recreating the poor creatures that made the list. Like this:
It still makes me laugh.
And so I started posting other examples of bad taxidermy on people’s Facebook pages as birthday greetings. Totally normal behavior. Right? Right?!
Then I got my first piece of bad taxidermy: a squirrel tail in the shape of a question mark.
It was a thank-you gift from a graduate student after she successfully defended her thesis. I was her chair. She gave it to me and said, “I saw this and thought of you because you like bad taxidermy and wrote question marks all over drafts of my thesis.”
True.
The tail led to a deer head from the 1950s, then a deer tail plaque with a thermometer (a furmometer!), then a blowfish ornament, then Hando.
Now, people see this and think of me:
And that’s fine by me. (I immediately thought, “Christmas gift!”)
You still don’t get it?
Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Many people do get it, and get me. Jenny Lawson (aka The Bloggess) would.
Maybe you can just scroll on past. Or look away. It really only matters that I think it’s hilarious. That’s my thing. You find yours. I support you.
After posting my last update, I (not surprisingly) fell into a funk. All I wanted to do was read trashy fiction (Patricia Cornwell, I’m talking about you) and watch “Modern Family.”
Now I’m back.
Here are my top 10 observations about France:
1. French folks haven’t gotten the memo about cigarettes and cancer. Or, if they have, they don’t give a bleu, blanc, rouge crap. Even the mannequins smoke. (It gives new meaning to the sentence, “Check out his butt!”)
2. The French revere their produce in a way that Americans don’t. Even heirloom tomatoes, not conventionally pretty, earn places of distinction at weekly markets.
3. The French pay attention to details. Sure, people flock to the Eiffel Tower, but even a lowly door knocker can be a must-see. And then there is the variety and presentation of delightful treasures such as macarons.
4. Americans appreciate personal space. The French don’t. At all. They end up wearing each other like cheap suits. They don’t even give the Mona Lisa any room.
5. Sometimes the French don’t have a good grasp of English. At least they try. (And more French speak English in France than Americans speak French in America.)
6. Though images can often cross language barriers, sometimes they don’t. And some signs end up being unintentionally hilarious and/or weird. What do these signs mean?
It's OK to cross here with your large piece of lumber?
No coughing while wearing a Cleopatra costume? No feeling the bicep of a man made of tiles?
Don't let red people reach into your European Men's Carry-all?
7. France is pigeon heaven. They are portly and plentiful. One even roosts in the window above my bed, tapping on the glass occasionally to make sure I’m awake.
8. The French love dogs. They take them everywhere, and let them go everywhere.
9. There may be nothing better in this world than a warm crêpe from a street vendor.
Observe and report 