Wednesday, March 27, 2013

A Bit About My First Boyfriend Who's Dead

When I was 18, I was declared the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut.

I'm sure there were hotter waitresses at other Pizza Huts, but this contest was limited to the one where I worked. According to the 17-year-old manager who was on duty at the time, I only came in second because the other girl was thinner. But I personally believe that if there were a "Question and Answer" portion of the competition, I would have won over the judges, compiled of two dishwashers and a line cook, with my charm.

At the time, I was flattered by the whole thing. The words "second-hottest" and "Bethany" had never been previously used in the same sentence. And I knew I was working it with the way I wore my black uniform pants, apron, and maroon polo that always smelled like pizza grease no matter how many times I washed it.

I suddenly developed a huge ego and gave in to the flirting that only a 17-year-old Pizza Hut manager, who we shall call Jason, can dish out. 

"Hey, can you change the root beer?" I asked him this one night.

"Whatever you need," he said, in a way that reminded me that I was the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut. 

As he was changing the root beer he said, "I get such bad hand cramps when I do this. Among other things."

"I feel like you're being disgusting right now," I replied.

"I am," he said.

Now, you probably don't know that the third-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut had become my friend over the course of the first month I had worked there. Her name was Candy, and we spent a lot of time talking about boys while we put away the salad bar. But there's something bigger you don't know about the third-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut.

She was Jason's ex-girlfriend.

"Jason is nice," I said one night as I was dumping some slightly used bleu cheese salad dressing back into the gallon jar from whence it came.

"He is," Candy agreed. "We kind of dated once."

"It didn't work out?" I asked.

"No, but I'm over it," she said.

"How long ago did you guys break up?"

"Last week," she said.

"Um....." I said.

"You should go out with him," said Candy. "He's lonely. Besides, I've moved on."

And then she told me about this guy she was in love with who worked at the gas station. I decided she really must be over it.

So, Jason, the 17-year-old Pizza Hut manager, and I had a two-week romance. The kind of romance you have when you are a 17-year-old Pizza Hut manager and the second-hottest waitress at the very same Pizza Hut. Making out with him was like kissing an entire pepperoni. In taste and texture.

"Hey, I can't go out tonight," he said, at the end of our two special weeks. "I have to help Candy with something. She's having problems with her new boyfriend."

"That's cool," I said. And even though I did see him again after that, to tell him in the most dramatic way ever that it was over between us, I'll say in the second-most dramatic way ever that I NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN. Because I quit being the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut and went back to college.

Jason and Candy eventually got back together, and I can only assume that Candy was upgraded to being the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut in my absence. But that cannot be verified because Jason, the Pizza Hut manager who kept the official records on such things, died suddenly in a way that is terrible. But also hilarious if you have a very dark sense of humor. As I do.

And so our story of romance, jealousy, tragedy, cheesy breadsticks, and being declared the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut comes to an end. If you take anything away from this story, I hope that it's the fact that I was once declared the second-hottest waitress at Pizza Hut.

Monday, March 25, 2013

18-Year-Old Bethany's Prom Date Essay

I got all dressed up.
And then destroyed my brother while Bonanza was on.

Sometimes on a cold evening before there is supposed to be snow at the end of March when there should be buds on the trees and not icicles, I like to go through my old computer files and organize them into folders. That is how I came across this essay I wrote when I was 18.

I've always written from personal experience and pain that I've transformed into something less terrible. In short, I fictionalize most of it. This piece is all about how I couldn't find a prom date. It was SUCH a big deal at the time, and I remember thinking that I was definitely going to win a Pulitzer. Read on and enjoy my misery.

18-Year-Old Bethany's Prom Date Essay

I had been single for seventeen years and was starting to get pretty good at it when prom came around again, and I was expected to find a date. The unwritten law of our school states: If you don’t have a date for prom you are a loser, and your fellow classmates have permission to make fun of your misfortune.

Valentine’s Day marked the unofficial cut-off date for getting a prom date that didn’t have crater zits or ear hair. In my school, if you didn’t have a date for prom by then, you would probably be stuck going alone or kissing up to the president of the Fungus Club. Fungus boy didn’t scare me. ALONE did. Going to prom by one’s self was a pretty bold move for any student, especially a female one. I decided to try some different tactics to get a date. If none of my schemes worked out, I would go ALONE and face potential embarrassment. I decided, no matter what the outcome, I would hold my head high. Nobody was going to give me a guilt trip and get away with it.

I considered putting a want ad in the school newspaper. Wanted: prom date, preferably male, no need to pick me up or drop me off, “corsage shopping” not imperative, only requirement is to try not to get intoxicated until after the banquet.

However, I knew it would take more than just media resources.

On Februrary 15, I launched my plot. The mission? To find and maintain a prom date.

Plan #1: The cave man
One person holds down the victim while the other one beats him over the head repeatedly with a blunt object. Victim awakens just in time to attend prom. Mission accomplished.

Plan #2: Poison the water hole
Contaminate drinking water of men’s varsity basketball team with experimental, mind-altering drugs. Does he really need to be able to dress himself for the event?

Plan #3: The Undergrad
Disguise younger brother as vertically-challenged college friend. Threaten to tell parents incriminating details about that little “fender bender” that only you, he, and the guy at the body shop know about.

Plan #4: The Cyber Date
Seduce someone over the internet. Bribe him with pirated software. Pack mace.

Plan #5: The Dr. Frankenstein
Create a date using body parts from biology class dissections. A rat liver here, a frog spleen there, a worm’s brain--all dipped in formaldehyde to keep him fresh until prom. (Note to self: bring lots of deodorant.)

By the time I was through writing Plan #5, I knew I was going through severe “I-have-no-date-depression,” a common illness among high school students. I decided to seek professional help.

Upon flipping through the yellow pages, I came across this ad:


I took a chance and went to see the doctor. At this point, I needed all the help I could get.

Dr. Afailyer was a wisp of a man with a balding salt-and-pepper head. In fact, he looked a little bit like my principal.

“So, what’s bothering you?” he asked.

“Well, Doctor, I don’t have a date to prom yet, and it’s only four months away.”

“Oh my, cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose. See, I was thinking of going by myself. It might be more fun than going with someone I don’t really like. Don’t you think so?”

The doctor was speechless for a few moments. Then, he said, “That’s a very brave thing to do. I’ve seen men get away with it, but do you really think YOU can pull it off?”

“Well,” I replied, “it’s worth a shot. Besides, I’m a modern woman. I don’t need a prom date to complete my life.”

“I’m going to prescribe some medication. If you don’t have a date within a week, come back and see me. We may have to consider a brief stay in a psychiatric hospital if your mental condition doesn’t improve. Okay, time’s up.”

I left the office feeling no better about my condition. Prom was closing in fast. I suddenly felt nauseated. The physical symptoms of “I-have-no-date-depression” were setting in. The Fungus Club president was starting to look better every day. I needed advice from a reliable source.

I found that authority later that evening when I came across an advertisement for a psychic hotline as I was flipping through the channels. What an interesting idea, I thought to myself. So, I gave those psychics a call.

“Thank you for calling our psychic hotline. Please hold.”

“The Soothing Sounds of Simon and Garfunkel” began to play in my ear. I held for about a minute before a psychic answered my call.

“Let me guess. You would like a psychic reading.”

“Why yes. How did you know?”

“I’m a psychic. That’s my job. So, what would you like to know today?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Well, all psychics need a little information to get started.”

“I would like to know if I’m going to have fun at my prom.”

“Do you have a date?”


Smothered giggling sounds. “Then, you probably won’t have very much fun. Okay, lovely talking to you. Buh-bye then.”

So much for my free psychic reading. Suddenly, I started to see spots. Dr. Afailyer’s mental ward was beginning to sound like a rather pleasant option.

I spent much of the next few weeks in bed. I had started to hear voices.

“It’s me, Prom. I’ll be here in a few months, you know. You don’t have a date yet. I bet that makes you feel really, really bad. You’ll never find a date. Never. You’re going to have to go ALONE. ALONE. Wahahahhahahahahahahahahaha!”

ALONE. That word taunted me day and night. I wouldn’t be able to face my fallow classmates ever again if I showed up to prom ALONE.


I had begun to count the days. Sixty days until prom. Fifty-nine days until prom. Fifty-eight days until prom. I finally had a dress: a subtle, black velvet garb. I wanted a red dress but didn’t really want to call attention to myself since I was still “date-less.”

“Why don’t you just ask somebody?” my friends began to suggest.

“What? And face rejection and public humiliation? No, sir. Besides, I don’t know any guys who don’t have dates.” It was true. Even fungus boy had been snatched up before February was over.

Two months became a month. A month became two weeks. I prepared myself for humiliation. Finally, the day arrived. I had spent the week before prom in seclusion. I crawled out of bed that morning. “I’m heeeeeeeeeeeeeeere! Prom cackled. “Get ready for public ridicule!”

I was just about to call Dr. Afailyer to get sized for my straitjacket when I was struck with a wonderful and desperate idea.


Over the intercom: May we have your attention please. To the person or persons responsible for the flood in the gymnasium. Rolls of toilet paper are not meant to be flushed down the stools in the locker rooms. Furthermore, prom is no longer a possibility because the odor coming from the gym is so atrocious, no one has dared go in there since Saturday. We hope you are proud of yourselves. That is all.

After prom was ruined, I returned my dress, shoes, and jewelry and used that money to take a little trip after graduation.
So, I’ve been here in Aspen for these past eight months enjoying my solitude. I’ve decided that being ALONE is not so bad after all. I heard they gave our would-be prom queen a toilet seat crown and plunger/scepter for graduation, so she could have her fifteen minutes of fame. I say, “Let her have her title to put on her resumes. I’ll opt for skiing lessons with a twenty-two-year-old, Italian instructor.” Ah, if only everyone understood the value of being ALONE.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

BEHOLD! My New and Improved OKCupid Profile

Mongo likes candy.
So, I have mentioned many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many times how much I hate dating, especially online dating. And one time I jokingly created a post with what I call my "real profile" that shows me at my worst and my most sarcastic. The other day I was walking home in a rainstorm. My hair looked like birds were nesting in it. And I thought to myself, "I really wish I could put up a profile pic of myself right now, with my hair like this. I'm so sick of trying to take flattering pictures. This, right now? This is real."

And it occurred to me that I can do whatever I want.




So, I gave myself a unibrow and took some pictures. And then I did some more pictures.

The result is the most fun I've ever had on the Internet. These are my OKCupid pics. Try not to date me too hard. I'm delicate.

They call it a unibrow because there is only one.
Like, oh my god. It's the 80s and I'm so surprised.

Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret's friend Bethany
who doesn't really believe in you.
I call this one "Caught in a Rainstorm Right Before
This Picture was Taken" because I was
caught in a rainstorm right before this picture was taken.
Not right now, doll. I'm watching Murder, She Wrote.
And the all important "body shot" so dudes know
I'm the whole package.

Come on over and visit if you'd like to see my whole profile. And stay posted because there are more to come.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

More Crafting with Bethany: Making Your Own GLaDOS Potato Disguises

Hey, come on over to YouTube and check out my latest episode of Crafting with Bethany. There are potatoes, crafting porn, a phallic yam, special guests, and swashbuckling adventure (that last one is a lie).

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Happy St. Patrick's Day from the 1/8 Irish People!

If you're reading this, it's likely you were once a reader of The Cubicle 3-10 Newsletter and right now you're like, "Oh, dear, Bethany. Not this again." But for those of who are not in the know, I'm really proud to be 1/8 Irish. So, I compiled some information on celebrating St. Patrick's Day like a true 1/8 Irishperson. Now, grab your 1/8 as long shillelagh sticks and get out there and celebrate. Who knows? You might find the pot of nickels at the end of the aisle 7 at Rainbow (good sales going on right now).

Some Holiday Tips

St. Patrick’s Day is almost here again, and for those of us who are 12.5 percent Irish, it’s time to do some celebrating in honor of our partial heritage! Even if you aren’t 1/8 Irish, you too can celebrate like a real fractional Irishperson. Here are some great tips.

Plan your own 1/8 Irish St. Patrick’s Day parade. Borrow some “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” tape from a local crime scene and barricade a small section of street near where you live. (The walking paths in your local park could also be very useful.) Hold a float building contest! The key to 1/8 Irish float building is to pretend to get really drunk on non-alcoholic beer and then only finish 1/8 of it.

Cook a genuine 1/8 Irish meal. No food is more representative of St. Patrick’s Day than corned beef and cabbage. But for the 1/8 Irishperson, no food is more representative than a handful of stale Cheez-its and some tap water. (Well, what did you expect when you only plan 1/8 of the meal and then only make it 1/8 of the way to the grocery store?) On that note, my apologies to those of you who contracted food poisoning after trying out my corned hamster and Brussels sprout recipe in last years St. Patrick’s Day newsletter. You really aren’t supposed to cook rodents. I was joking.

Sing a jolly 1/8 Irish song. After the last few Cheez-its are eaten, and the unfinished floats have been dumped down by the river, it’s time to sing a traditional 1/8 Irish song. Here are 1/8 of the lyrics of one of my favorite tunes.

When 1/8 Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, 'tis like 11 AM in Spring.
In the lilt of 1/8 Irish chuckles
You can hear the 1/8 of the angels sing.
When 1/8 Irish hearts are somewhat happy,
1/8 of the world seems bright and gay.
And when 1/8 Irish eyes are smiling,
Sure, they steal 1/8 of your heart away.

When those words are sung by the 1/8 Irish Tenors in one of their famed 7.5 minute concerts, it always brings a tear to my eye.

So, make this St. Patrick’s Day a special one, whether you are a partial descendant of the Emerald Isle or just enjoy downing a few green beers before falling asleep in your arm chair with your hand in the box of Lucky Charms. St. Patrick’s Day is for everyone, and it only comes once a year!

A Recipe for 1/8 Irish Soda Bread

1/8 c. flour
1/8 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. baking soda
1/8 tsp. sugar (optional)
1/8 c. buttermilk
1/8 c. raisins

Knead and form into a round loaf.  Place on a cookie sheet.  Bake close to the top of the oven at 350 degrees until golden brown.  Serves 8 mice or one large toddler.  

The Proud History of the 1/8 Irish

I’m proud to be 1/8 Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!  1/8 Irish people celebrate 1/8 as much as the full-blooded Irish.  While the 100% Irish people sit at pubs and drink green beer, the beer we 1/8 Irish sip is more of a light sage.  Our Riverdance is a bit more of a Trickledance, where we kick our feet only 1/8 as high.  

The 1/8 Irish people have a long and very proud history.  It is thought that 1/8 Irish people contributed to the building of the Titanic back in Ireland.  Of course, they were notorious for going to work only 1/8 of the time and leaving after only 1/8 of their shift was over.  Some even theorize that the initial sinking was brought on by a 1/8 Irish watchman who raised the iceberg alarm only 1/8 of the time. 

1/8 Irish people are particularly rare because our ancestors made it only 1/8 of the way across the Atlantic before they got tired and went home.  And only 1/8 of them even made it that far. 

This year, as I watch the St. Patrick’s Day parade from my window and spend 1/8 of my day thinking about Colin Farrell, I’ll remember how proud I am to be 1/8 Irish.  After all, Oktoberfest is only a few short months away.