Let me set the scene for you: Thanksgiving day, Shable residence. My mother and father, my grandmother, her "special friend" Ron, and I have just finished enjoying a succulent turkey meal. My grandmother's dog has piddled on our floor three times, one of which we will not discover until the next morning, allowing it to age to a pungent degree of ripeness. The Lions game is over, and no one wants to watch the Sally Jessy Raphael on celebrity makeovers (except me.) Instead, they decide to break out the slide projector. Mentally, I write the body of my suicide note ("what kind of world is it when a child is forced to look at naked pictures of her mother on a five foot screen? Is there no God?")

The first thirty seven or so carousels of slides cover the birth of Moses through my Aunt Kathy's seventh birthday. I have seen at least five hundred thousand slides of my mother's family dressed up for Easter, and twice as many of them at some mysterious location referred to as Gant's or something, which appears to be a rock with a house on it, where my family used to vacation. In every slide in which he appears, my Uncle Keith is wearing shorts and has his mouth slightly ajar, as if to draw attention away from the fact that his ears were roughly twice the size of the rest of his body, or Arkansas, for that matter.

The final carousel is loaded onto the projector, and I ready myself for another half hour of mind numbing boredom. Five or six slides go by, and I feel myself losing consciousness. Suddenly, it appears, large as life on the screen, the day saver, the beacon of joy, the slide that gave meaning to my life:

My mother, standing next to Beaver Cleaver.

The real Beaver Cleaver. Of television fame. And as you may have noticed, there has not been one thing in my life that has influenced me more than television. Growing up, Beaver Cleaver was one of my heroes-- one of my idols, I daresay. And there he was with my mom, in living color, holding a ping pong paddle and looking quite pleased-- Jerry Mathers.

When I questioned her as to why I was kept in the dark about this fantastic-- nay, unsurpassable-- part of my heritage, my mother responded that, being the daughter of a General Electric employee, she only met the Beav once, when he had come to a company picnic (GE sponsored his show.) In truth, she said, she was more interested in Wally, who was, in her own words, "a babe."

Despite my mother's pooh-poohing of the encounter, I remain positive that this newfound knowledge will give me the edge I need in life. When I get turned down for a job, all I have to do is say, "Look. My mother and Beaver Cleaver are close, personal friends. I have here a slide of them playing ping-pong." And, provided he has a projector in his office, the interviewer will be shocked and amazed, and offer me the CEO position at once. (You have no idea how powerful the Beav is in the business world.) Hollywood will be beating down my door upon hearing of my iron-strong ties to Mr. Mathers. I might even get a phone call from the Pope (I assume he's an avid fan. Who isn't?)

Sorry, Mr. Smart Card-- I've found myself a new ticket to high society. It's me and Beaver Cleaver all the way, baby. And my Uncle Keith has Wally's autograph, too. So I think that entitles me to something. What, I'm not exactly sure.