The Adventures of Betttie | mediaplayer

Thursday

Let's Do Launch!


As the year grinds to a close, Bettie and Big Frank jet off to Las Vegas for the 39-4-Ever New Year’s Eve launch party extravaganza.

Since swapping the whirling plums and melons of Bazongas, the world’s largest nudist casino, for 39-4-Ever, the world’s largest online casino for women who lie about their age, life has been like a bad trip. But like thirty minutes on the circuit trainer to get a month’s free gym membership, it’s totally great when you stop. That’s how I ended the year back in the land of the palm tree and supersized portion. Mother Nature’s tanning salon; sunny Las Vegas. Hubby #3 and moi are over here for some annual jolly thinly disguised as a conference. I mean, any event that doesn’t start until after lunch is hardly work, is it? Oh, and, of course, for the illustrious launch of Big Frank’s get-rich-real-soon-now online cash cow site, 39-4-Ever.com. Bless his heart.

But the sinking feeling began as soon as I arrived at the Convention Center and started searching for our stand. Three hours and three million square feet of brushed nylon carpet squares later, I finally found someone who didn’t think they worked for a higher authority and learned that locating Booth 3685 was easy as it was right next to the john. Cute. Still, though the pubescent guard was like the Dougie Howser of corporate security, he was also so checking me out. And he must have liked what he saw as when I headed off I heard him say, “What an ass” under his breath.

It was sundown when I arrived at the gargantuan 39-4-Ever exhibition stand. You see, Hubby #3’s not too big on subtle. Fighting my way through the sea of pavement signs, literature racks, tinsel-wearing showgirls and a maze of elasticated queuing lanes that would have looked a damn sight more impressive if there were any people actually queuing in them, I found Big Frank just this side of his third coronary. Apparently, he was stressing about the color of the fake silk backdrop, but that was the least of his worries. I took one look and said, “Honey, the color’s fine, but put one more tart on that stand and you could double for the Bellagio breakfast bar.”

I didn’t stay long. Once the pony-tailed punters started swarming, I escaped next door to the Puerto Rican Hairdressing Convention and, three days later, rendezvoused back ready for the packing up. Found Frank explaining to some tuxedoed chimp who’d broken the interface that this was only the alpha version (that’s Latin for ‘doesn’t work,’ apparently.) He also mentioned that in my absence I’d missed hordes of celebrities absolutely fascinated by 39-4-Ever’s unique route to crippling debt.

“Like who?” I asked, reluctantly.
“You know, that woman who has the name of a capital city and that hotel chain.”
“Prague Hyatt?” I guessed.

Still every cloud has a silver lining, as I’d received a life-saving text from Wanda inviting me to celebrate the New Year with her, Barbra, Uri and the Goombay Dance Band on a rice barge in Vanuatu. Couldn’t find it in the atlas and to get there took four flights, but sounded a damn sight more fun than joining Barry Gibb and his chums for Celebrity Crab Catching in some Isle of Man rockpool.

Anything but dull Douglas, darling!

Hitting The Pot


As the season to be jolly looms large, Bettie is feeling far from festive as she’s packed off to get the inside story on the intricacies of female poker playing.

I used to love Christmas – the gift giving, spending quality time with the family, eating myself sick – and then I turned five. After that, all the be-jolly-by-golly, if-you-don’t-believe-you-won’t-receive crap wore thinner than reality in my stepmother’s mind. Now I hate it with about the same intensity of an alien death ray. As grannie used to say, “Christmas cookies and happy hearts just give me a case of the holiday farts.”

So, it was no surprise that while browsing the Isle of Man Examiner for anything even approaching news, a quick peek at the ‘Top Xmas Events’ list had me reaching for the bong pipe. I mean, Festive Felting with Annie  and the Groudle Glen Santa Train were hardly c’mon, baby, lighting my fire, you know what I’m saying?

It all came to a head at the Bargain Bucket O’Fat, the local Eat-As-Much-As-You-Weigh deep-fried fish emporium. Obviously my husband’s choice. Personally I try not to eat in cheap restaurants because, while I’m not exactly fussy with food, in my experience, once you’ve got something in your mouth, you’re kinda committed.

As Big Frank returned with his fourth dessert, I said that enough was enough. I just wouldn’t – couldn’t – spend the festive season here. It had also not escaped my notice that the march of days was bringing us ever closer to the end of year launch date for 39-4-Ever.com, the world’s largest – and not surprisingly, only – online casino for women of a delicate age. In light of this, Big Frank decided he wanted me to get au fait with all things online and gambling. After I’d explained that I knew more about the inner workings of my stepsister’s sex life, he said, “Exactly.” Apparently, female poker playing was on the up-and-up, and he was adamant that 39-4-Ever needed a slice of that action (for ‘action’ read ‘cold, hard cash’).

Now, as I’m sure you’ll be aware, diary, I’m totally clueless on the intricacies – or even the point – of this stupid game, but, hey, that didn’t stop me from whisking off to the Tina Wallmann School Of Poker. For a mere $10,000, I got enrolled in the ‘Buxom Princess Strategy Intensive’, and by year end, this is what I’d learned:

• Don’t limp when everyone behind you is very tight ­– and never come on the flop
• If you’re left with a pair of queens, split them and play with both hands
• You need a strong hand if you’re going to dominate, especially when there’s been a lot of action with the flip-flop
• Be aggressive if you are hit, especially by fish – unless you have a small pair, as you might be dominated
• Don’t play mind games unless you are (a) still sober, and (b) sure you had a mind in the first place.

I haven’t been so proud of myself since I completed that 500-piece jigsaw in less than a week when the box said 2-4 years.

After the course, Tina took me to one side and whispered that just for me she would impart her two rules for ultimate success in poker. Rule one was easy, being ‘Never tell everything you know’. Unfortunately, the brainless bimbo never got round to telling me the other one.

Still, the course did mean one thing: I missed Christmas in its entirety. How’s that for a straight flush?

Medium Rare


During a visit to the local haunted hairdressers for a long overdue pampering, Bettie ends up making a spiritual connection with a long-dead ancestor.

So where was I, diary? Ah, yes, I needed to tell all about how my innocent hairdressing appointment resulted in me awakening my dormant psychic abilities and getting on the ghost phone to good old grannie.

Now, before I go any further, I must state that secretly I’m a very spiritual person. For a start, I have my chakras centered on Medicare and once employed my very own Feng Shui Zen Master. Though the sum total of his input was to inform me that the waste bin was in the relationship corner of our bedroom. Now, doesn’t that make a whole bunch of sense.

I also have a great respect for the dead, but this is totally due to grannie being an honest-to-goodness medium. Trouble was she didn’t so much see dead people as smell them. And in the height of summer in New Orleans, that’s not a gift, I can tell you. But really, the spirits used to tell her everything – what wars were coming, what shoes to buy, everything – and, as she said, three hundred billion dead people can’t all be wrong.

What with all the rushing to relocate to this hardly-paradise island, it had to be said I was in desperate need of some ‘swimming in Lake Me’ time. Now, I know what this sounds like. That I’m one of those sad, assed Americans who’ll pay anything to stay young forever, but that’s not true. I’m on a pretty tight budget, here, but boy, do I long to be back at the age when I turned heads not stomachs.

Though it was upstairs over a butchers, it turned out Time To Dye Salon De Beauté and Charcuterie was a revelation. Not only were they an award-winning, top-rate tonsorium – scooping up the coveted Helena Bonham Carter Crazy Crimping Award three years running – the place was also actually haunted. Now I know that sounds crazy, but folks who don’t believe me should get right on down to Baz and Lionel’s for an appointment. I mean, things go on there that would put the willies up most people.

Showing an interest, after my wash, tie and dye session, the boys whipped out a ouija board and in no time we were nattering to my dead grannie like she’d never fallen from that Welcome Santa Parade float while dressed as a jolly green goblin, impaling herself on her own pointed elf ears. It was a family tragedy. Still, as soon as the cosmic call connected, I asked her if there was anything she wanted to pass on to the living world. The planchette pinged over to ‘Yes’ and we all waited with baited breath. Then an eerie voice drifted across the salon, imparting grannie’s last words of wisdom:

“Remember! Remember! If ya got it, honey, flaunt it. And if ya ain’t, keep it hidden in a burlap sack.”

Well, after all that channelling of passed-on progenitors, I was plumb wore out. Which was not a good state of affairs, as next on my agenda of major crapola was the festive run-up to spending Christmas on this frozen rock.

Ha, diary! Like that’s ever gonna happen…

Maid To Measure


Stuck in her creepy Isle of Man mansion, Bettie decides she needs some help around the house, but ends up going back to her roots at the local haunted hairdressers.

Finally, after weeks of tweaks, trials and tribulations, Big Frank announced that he’s settled on a launch date for his – sorry, our – online casino. But, more importantly, he’s also got his gimmick. Final inspiration came from his one and only muse, which would, of course, be me. His hook and tagline? 39-4-Ever: the world’s largest online casino for women of a delicate age. Hmm, it sounded to me like clutching at straws, but, hey, he’s the guru for all things gullible, so I let him have this one. Because, to be Anne Frank, diary, I was up to my ankles in applications for the position of maid in our crumbling ruin of a new home. You see, here it’s Halloween every fricking night of the week. Bats in the belfry? Check. Cobwebs in the cavities? Check. Possibility of George A. Romero filming his next zombie apocalypse in the cellar? Check. Check. Check.

I say ankles instead of armpits, because this being the Isle of Man, thorough and efficient Merry Maids were a little short in supply. And if you added the word ‘sane’ to that description, the number dropped to one. The name that graced the top of the only possible resumé was obviously from a dyed-in-the-wool local family with ancestors going back a million generations to Noah – and was completely unpronounceable. All I can say for sure is that it started with an ‘M’, had thirteen syllables, and featured enough diacritics to sink the Queen Mary. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, so I decided to give ‘Mona’ the benefit of my considerable doubt.

After a quick call she trotted right over, but let me tell you, first impressions were not good. Still, as my morning’s email missive from St. Oprah had focused on accentuating the positive, the best thing I can think to say is the crusty old fart certainly suited the house. Regrettably, this meant she looked like the Wicked Witch of the West’s slightly wartier sister. Caught off guard, I asked if she’d come far – which was a fairly stupid opener as we are, of course, on an island smaller than my local JCPenney Outlet back in Reno. She replied, “We’re neighbors,” yet, you know, if she’d answered, “From Salem via broomstick” I wouldn’t have batted my eyeliner.

“Why should you get the job?” I asked.
“I hate dirt,” the hatchet-faced crone replied. “It gets on me nerves.”

When I asked if she was a hard worker, she told me she worked like a Trojan, which was odd because I didn’t think the people of Troy were especially remembered for their Hoovering and dusting.

“I used to mop up at the morgue. But that was just corpses, corpses, corpses, morning, noon and night. So I set up me own business at that haunted hairdressers down the road in Ballasalla weaving discarded clippings into coasters. Did it till I lost all the feeling in both hands…”

“Stop,” I said. I’d heard enough. “Did you say, ‘hairdressers’? 

It turned out she had and that was enough distraction to cut short the conversation, hand her a mop and bucket, and book myself an appointment. And so, I ended this nightmare with a new maid, a new hairdo and a new-found love for all things ghoulish. The reason? Well, I also managed a one-on-one connection with some ancestors of my own, but that’s a whole other story…

All Spain, No Gain


Bettie suffers another week as wife to an ailing online offering, before fleeing to Barcelona for 39-4-Ever’s first intercontinental conference.

As some do-goody adulterer once said: “It’s not work that kills men, it’s worry,” which, though comforting, means Big Frank is dead cert for a coronary unless he can get this crazy 39-4-Ever casino up and working. Only a few weeks into the whole stupid idea and Husband #3 is already having a hard time with his online offering. And, typically, his bedtime offering is going the same way. I’ll give you an example. There we were post Book at Bedtime and he turns to me and says, “Bettie, do you love me just because my father left me a fortune?”
“Aw, no,” I says back, “not at all, honey.” Which is God’s honest truth as I would love him no matter who left him the money.

The other fact that’s driving him bazongas is Muffy’s done a pretty good job of turning my soupçon of gossip into a veritable eighteen-course smörgåsbord – and now every one of the Akron clan is out with torches and pitchforks. And while having a stepsister with a worse privacy reputation than Facebook is extremely advantageous, it does mean our servers keep crashing under the strain of all the family phone traffic.

Apparently, this is due to our bandwidth bit cap, but to my ears this is just so much yada yada yada… Actually, I recall the exact moment I discovered I was computer illiterate. It was when Big Frank asked me to back up my hard drive and I couldn’t find the stick shift for reverse. Of course, in my world, machines should become more people-literate, but I’m digressing.

This is best illustrated when I intercepted a call I thought was from Aunt Irena – she of the legendary crumbling shoulders – but was instead some IT support dork ringing to final sign-off the 39-4-Ever.com web design. As Big Frank was out trying to buy 12lbs of rib steak on an island that last had bison circa the Ice Age, I thought, ‘What the heck!’ and stepped in to help. The final Q&A session was the stuff of nightmares, and went something like this:

Q: “What sort of backend are you looking for?”
A: “Preferably one that can crush walnuts in hipsters.”

Q: “What do you want to do about the possibility of user error?”
A: “We’ll replace them with another user.”

Q: “Would you like a demonstration of my latest bottom teaser?”
A: “My word, can we even do that on a mere phone call?”

After finally hanging up on him when he asked me if I’d ever had experience with a woman’s portal, it all left my last marriage looking like the Holy Grail of relationships in comparison. But as grannie used to say there’s three things you should never go back to: an unexploded firework, a wounded ninja or an ex-husband.

Still, one thing that’s true in this industry, there’s never time to sit back and sip Mai-Tais, for next we’re off to our first conference. This one was in Barcelona which had two things going for it: Spain in December is a few shades warmer than the UK, and I’d heard they’d just passed a law banning anyone whose not smoking in public. Sounds like my kinda town!

Three days later and all I can recall about this exposition-summit-whatsit was this nasty rash of a man who attached himself to me in the dinner pavilion. Got stuck with him all evening. Claimed he knew everybody and said to hit the Big Time, all you had to be was ‘juiced in.’ To this end, he suggested I join him at the casino’s private members’ club. Said he was onto a come bet, but to me didn’t look like he’d been close for a while. Much later, after one-too-many free Proseccos, he tried to impress me by saying his life quest was to do something for humanity. I suggested sterilization. That did the trick! Never did find out what he did for a living. Best guess? Stripping paint with his breath.

Suddenly the Isle of Man seemed like Fantasy Island in comparison – and definitely a case of Sagrada Overly-Família…