A show that really takes the biscuit* #SundayStories

Dear British Folks:

You know how I love your TV shows. I can’t get over the full frontal on regular TV.

Even your reality shows are so different from ours in America. They are just so civilized. I mean, just look at the “Great British Bake Off.” The competition is with THEMSELVES. “Oh this tart. It’s just not my day” and the like.

But then there is “Four in a Bed.” I saw a side of you people that shocked me to my core.

(Interruption for people who aren’t familiar with the show: Four innkeepers take turns staying at each other’s places then rate them on facilities, breakfast, host attitude, etc. They also pay what they think the stay was worth. There’s a winner at the end.)

In Season 14, Episode 1, Mandi didn’t like that Natalie, who wears the pants in her relationship with Mark (contestants noted this repeatedly), deducted some points for cleanliness because there was a dust layer on the nightstand.

Well. That meant WAR.

When it came time for the stay at Mark and Natalie’s, this lady stood on the nightstand to find cobwebs on top of the four-poster bed. She was on her hands and knees in the bathroom to look close enough to find wee stains in the toilet grout. She deducted points for two hairs on the carpet. A six for cleanliness was a low blow, considering she only gave a two to “Sleeperdorm” that actually had a wee-stained mattress and suspicious drips down the wall.

I’ve never seen a more vicious show in your country.

And I watch plenty of British TV.

Anyway, thanks for making me feel better about our miserable Housewives and whatnot.

Tra!
Beth

*Love me some slang.

Read Full Post »

Gimme Three Steps Back #ThursdayToxins #ThursdayThoughts

Dear Kara,

I was SO HAPPY to see you Saturday night.

In general, of course, but also because you too wanted to wear a mask to see our brother Lodell play in his Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band.

Diamond Music Hall was SOMETHING ELSE.

I had no idea this place had COVID repellent. They need to bottle it and sell it.

I mean, CLEARLY they have some kind of protection because there were 4,352 people inside and no mask in sight.

Yikes!

I walked in and started hyperventilating. I told Lodell that he’d be the last person I’d see pre-infection.

It was a super-spreader event, for sure. Great for the band to have so many fans. Not great for my health.

But you showed up and normalized mask wearing.

The fear is real.

I am grateful.

I’m also oddly grateful to the nearby couple who decided a Southern rock show was a good place to practice the dance moves they learned after Bible study.

They were fascinating.

And Freebird USA put on a great show.

I’m a fan.

I’m willing to go out again, but only if you are with me in mask solidarity.

Deal?

Your sister,
Beth

Read Full Post »

I’ll take ‘What’s in the Bag?’ for $100 #SundayShamefulness

Dear “Br” and Mariah,

Congratulations!

You win the award for Biggest Kitchen Disaster.

We’ve hosted loads of people in the condo we list on Airbnb. There have been many messy guests.

You take the cake.

Except you didn’t. You left it behind along with other half-eaten food, a sink full of dirty, greasy dishes, and a bag of liquid.

Seriously.

What’s in that bag? Shudder.

It’s like you deliberately used every dish, pot, pan, glass and utensil in the place. And went through three rolls of paper towels.

You were there for less than 36 hours!

It took me an hour to wash everything — a fact I won’t soon forget.

I hope you enjoyed your Valentine’s Day. I can guarantee it will be the only one you spend in our place.

Host you again? HELL NO.

Sincerely,
Beth

Read Full Post »

Redneck is as redneck does #WednesdayWit

Dear Jeff Foxworthy:

Congrats on your new show. It sounds like a lowbrow “Antiques Roadshow.”

Dare I say it’s the redneck version.

That tracks. You made your money by calling out the kind.

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 sincerely miss the annual Dublin Redneck Games.
• I like taxidermy. Specifically bad taxidermy. Preferably things I stuff myself.
• 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.)
• My idea of fun is tubing down a river.
• I carry hot sauce in my bag.
• There’s local moonshine on the liquor shelf.
• I own overalls.
• I used to have chickens, all named like pets. (Trish still appears as the header on this blog.)

Read Full Post »

Smells like moose spirit #FridayFun #FridayReads

Dear Brits:

Yes, I still love you. One of the things I like best, as you know, is your way with words.

While I was all up in your environs recently, I spent some time shopping. Let’s discuss what I found. It’s a little … odd.

“Cloudy” lemonade does not sound appetizing. Can you just stick with the standard noun?

Strong and punchy describes a boxer, not a cheese.

I appreciate that you are trying to get folks excited about the cheese, but I’m not sure I want “citrus hints” in my “zesty and crumbly” cheese.

This just sounds gross.

I get that the place is called “Moose Coffee,” but perhaps it would be best to remove the “moose” modifier for “flavoured & specialty teas” and “natural juice.” I don’t want moose-flavored anything, to be honest.

Now THIS is genius. It’s just a tremendous write-up. Good shout!

Thank you for all the joy you unwittingly provide.

Love and sloppy, wet and squirty American kisses,
Beth

Read Full Post »

Every day I’m hustlin’*: Restaurant edition #FactFriday #FridayFeelings #TGIF

Dear Ca Phe Viet (that’s clever, btw),

In America, businesses typically have one focus. The Container Store sells containers. Publix sells groceries. Popeye’s sells (fight-inducing) chicken.

Not you.

I visited your Manchester establishment because you had a half-star rating higher than the other Vietnamese restaurant within walking distance.

Little did I know I would get so much bang for my buck.

I had no idea I’d be able to shop for Asian specialties from the comfort of my chair while slurping up savory Phở Gà. How handy!

See, when I walked up, I thought these three awnings represented three distinct shops.

But no. I could eat lunch, do my grocery shopping AND buy a mobile phone/change my service.

You know what I was surprised I couldn’t get? A glass of water. You know, like regular water with ice in it.

When I asked for water, the server blinked a few times like she was trying to process the word. Then she brought me a mug of hot water.

But I guess you’re great at multitasking: selling calling plans, restocking sriracha, putting the kettle on.

So thanks for forcing me to try new things, such as hot water as a beverage with hot soup. Like you, I’ve branched out.

Kính thư,
Beth

* Thanks, Rick Ross.

Read Full Post »

Beth and the Biddies: Like Jane Goodall with less fur #ThursdayThoughts

March of the Pensioners
Narrated by Morgan Freeman (of course)

Each day, a truly remarkable journey takes place. Dozens of elderly women — likely awake since before dawn — don their supportive bathing costumes, abandon the security of their single-level homes, and make the long trek to the YMCA for their life-changing morning ritual: water aerobics (i.e., boot camp).

The goal? To stave off or reverse the damage done by a penchant for butter and sedentary living.

These be-grayed specimens tumble into the water of the indoor pool, nattering incessantly about ungrateful and noisy offspring.

1950s perms encased in swim caps, liver-spotted skin cleansed by the chlorine — their leathery haunches strain to move through the water.

Intrepid cultural anthropologist and writer Beth C. — also a lover of butter — attempted to infiltrate their ranks.

The pack was immediately suspicious of this young whippersnapper. (“Young” is relative.)

The alpha female tried to warn her off with a series of loud barks. Beth responded with barks of her own, indicating she would not be intimidated.

Resolute, indomitable, driven by the overpowering urge to rediscover her long-lost abs, she was determined to stand her ground.

The journey was hazardous as the women eyed her as a predatory threat.

Yet, after many long weeks of delicate maneuvering, Beth finally was accepted into the pack. They greeted her by name. Asked about her recent vacation. Swapped phone numbers.

Beth felt vindicated. Acknowledged. And (thankfully) streamlined.

Her magical journey will continue three times a week as she becomes further enmeshed in the pack’s routine.

 

Read Full Post »

Here’s a story of a town that has gone to pot(holes) #WednesdayWisdom #chellheath @StokeTruths

Dear Readers:

You know how excited I get when I have a guest post. Today, I’m pleased to present one from Disgruntled Danny, a lovely-despite-the-moniker person I met while pursuing my passion for a particular U.K. band.

He’s pissed about the lack of road repairs in Chell Heath, the borough he’s called home for 12 years.

Here he is, in rare form. Enjoy!
Beth

 

“Harry Pothole and the Tarmac of Terror” and other tales
Guest post by Daniel Harrowven

Misery, frustration and disappointment. For most British people these are our default settings, but on a Friday morning in early May these emotions were amplified.

The reason? I had just read the results of the local government elections and, as feared, my local councillor had been re-elected.

For the last nine years, since my councillor was first voted into office, Chell has gone from being “a little bit rough” to a town that can now offer visitors an experience akin to Kabul circa 2003.

How did this happen?

Chell Heath is a Safe Seat. Many of the families in the area have lived here for generations and they always vote for the same political party. They are afraid of change. As long as nothing improves, they can continue to blame all their problems on former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. (She was forced out of office in 1990 and has done nothing at all since 2013 on account of her being dead.)

I was inspired to act whilst driving home one evening. Listening to the latest CD by Jesse’s Divide, I suddenly felt my spine shatter, thumbs dislocate and the CD skip, causing me to wonder whether I had suffered a brief blackout.

No.

I had driven over one of Chell Heath’s impressive (and growing) number of potholes.

Danny recreates his death-defying drive.

In mainland Europe and the U.S.A., drivers drive on the right of the road.

In the U.K., drivers drive on the left of the road.

In Chell Heath, we drive on what is left of the road.

The following day, I went back to the pothole and had my long-suffering wife photograph me pretending to punch the pothole.

Disgruntled Danny, Superhero

I posted the photo to my Facebook wall and the Facebook page of my local council.

And became an Internet troll.

Lately, my trolling has taken the form of movie treatments and posters fitting the pothole agenda.

 

Here’s a medley:

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

How much of a stir has this trolling caused within the council? Have I been asked to remove the posts? Been offered a meeting to discuss my grievances?

No.

I have had no response whatsoever.

Not even a “Sod off and bother someone else.”

But one person did take notice. Rathi Pragasam, the woman who ran against my councillor — the woman for whom I voted — found my pothole series amusing. So it came to pass (that sounds a bit biblical!) that Rathi visited me recently to discuss my rantings.

To be clear, she is not elected, has no power or authority in the ward, but within 24 hours she had contacted parliament (WTF!), arranged funding, and now the potholes are due to be repaired in the coming weeks.

All more than anyone on the council did.

I understand that there will always be bigger problems than some holes in the road, but little victories make life slightly more bearable.

And writing this has been a joy, because for 40 minutes I, a British person, have not had to talk about Brexit.

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

It’s not easy being green: An account of vegan cooking #MondayMotivation

Dear Vegans,

God bless you, every one. How do you manage to find things to eat every day?

I’m sure things have gotten slightly easier for you (as more and more people make the choice), but it certainly is a challenge to find food that is completely free from animal products.

Eddie and I are hosting friends next month, one of whom is one of you. I’ve been road-testing recipes: shepherd’s pie, chickpea and avocado wraps, tamales, etc.

Japanese gyoza nearly was the death of me, though.

It’s one of my favorite things to make, thanks to the excellent tutelage of my friend Miwa.

However, I usually buy the pre-made skins from the Asian market down the road. It makes life so much easier.

But said skins have eggs.

Ruh roh, Raggy.

So I went to the vegan section of Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck). I found wonton skins, which will do in a pinch. Checked ingredients list to be safe.

So those wouldn’t work. I went to two other granola-people stores. No luck. In fact, one helpful cashier checked his supplier’s site to see if vegan wonton/gyoza/dumpling/potsticker wrappers existed. They don’t, apparently.

Back at home, I decided to make my own.

Oh yes, I did.

And that’s how I found myself up to my eyebrows in brown rice and tapioca flour yesterday afternoon.

I don’t have photos of the process because my hands were covered in flour for hours. I do have an image of the (uncooked) finished product:

As for the taste, I’d say they closely resembled my usual recipe. A little off, but not by much.

If anything, this little experiment has made me aware of just how many animal products we consume daily — even when we don’t think we are consuming any.

Wishing you all the best, and hoping you continue to have more and better options,
Beth

Read Full Post »

A key to Pandora’s box (i.e., my brain) #ThursdayThoughts

Dear Loyal (?) Readers:

Want to peek into how my mind works? Here you go:

I read a news story about a guy who swallowed a garden slug on a dare and died. (To be clear, it was eight years later from a disease the slug had called RAT LUNGWORM — gross — but still).

So naturally, I thought of that “What are little boys made of?” poem:

What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.
That’s what little boys are made of!
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice.
That’s what little girls are made of!

And then I started thinking about what I would be made of (hint: It ain’t sugar and all that). And because I’m a little addicted to TV, here’s a guide to me in shows:

Two parts “Jersey Shore Family Vacation“ (Truth is stranger than fiction. It’s why I became a journalist.)
Two parts “The Amazing Race“ (I love to travel, and I’m competitive. I would sell a kidney to be on that show.)
One part “Chopped“ (I like to cook, and I have a pantry full of odd things from the Buford Highway Farmers Market.)
One part “Oddities” (This captures my bad taxidermy obsession.)
A large helping of “Big Freedia: Queen of Bounce“ (Because, you know.)
A pinch of “Naked Attraction“ (I often work blue in non-work situations. I also love Brits. As you know.)
A dash of “Haunting of Hill House“ (Gore? Jump scares? True crime? I’m in.)

I don’t know, Michael. I don’t know.

Anyway, if you continue to be amused by what crosses my mind and comes out on the page, please subscribe to this blog. If you do already, thanks!

Yours in slugs, lungworm and guidos,
Beth

 

Read Full Post »