Guess what. I'm gonna be on Road Trip Nation! Thanks to the Unknown Reader who recommended my blog to her friend Camilla. Unknown Reader, I enjoyed meeting your friend!
Sneak preview of upcoming novel.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
LinkelodeonFrom Ashley: "The Website is Down: Sales Guy vs. Web Dude", which is a video about an IT guy dealing with a sales dude
If you hated Showgirls (or if you liked it), it can be redeemed for you through this puppet satire, Showtoys.
Halston boots I would like to own.
From Mike: snippets of the best Superman comic I've ever seen. Anybody know where to find the book in real life?
Here is a Web site where you can buy techno music. And I did.
This chick's David Bowie costume is awesome.
Dogs are funny when you put humiliating costumes on them and they totally like it, because they have no dignity, and thus they transcend dignity and become almost Christlike in their oblivious cuteness.
Labels: links
11:30 AM # (3) commentsSaturday, August 16, 2008
Response from Whole Foodswhich I thought was very nice and well written
Hello Gwendolyn
Wow- I am so disappointed and embarrassed to hear your story! This behavior is completely unacceptable and I am shocked to hear that one of my department heads would react in this manner.
Please accept my deepest apologies. We pride ourselves on offering our guests the finest hospitality in town and in the nation. To have one of my team leaders respond in such an inappropriate way has not only damaged our relationship with you but set a poor example for the rest of his team. I read your email last night before bed and could only think about how many other times this may have shown up on the sales floor without my knowing.
Rest assured that I will be following up with [the offending manager's name, spelled correctly] as soon as he gets in today. I will also find about about the recipe that you requested and make sure we get it slotted in the production schedule for you.
I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart that you took the time to contact us yesterday. I know that most people who had been treated in this manner would have walked out and never looked back. Your feedback will give me the opportunity to address this issue immediately and ensure that no other guest has an experience similar to yours.
I would love the opportunity to leave you a gift card at the service desk. I completely understand if you would prefer to pick up the card at one of our other locations, but would like the opportunity to meet with you in person and reassure you of the level of service that our team is capable of.
I will have a card waiting for you at guest service as soon as we open- just let me know if you would prefer to pick up elsewhere and I will arrange that for you.
I will be back in touch on the recipe, and please don't hesitate to contact me directly if I can be of further assistance
[store manager's sig]
Response from Central Market
I'll send your idea off to our Food Service folks and see what happens - [Selling Manager's name]
Sighing with Relief
(I really did send both those emails, right before I posted them on the blog.)
I'm glad Whole Foods wrote me back and was nice about it, because I really do like then for more than just that chicken. But I couldn't say so, because my feelings were hurt and I was temporarily blinded by that. I felt like they were a boyfriend that did me wrong -- I didn't actually want to break up with them, but I was prepared to do so if they couldn't respect my feelings.
I'm glad I can go back, because I'm currently obsessed with this stuff they have called Green Gazpacho, which I guess you're supposed to eat like soup, but which I only eat with naan, as nature seems to have intended.
See, kids? What does this teach us?
WRITING:
Helping customers get what they need, since [the year the Egyptians or whoever invented it].
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
An Open Letter [Feedback Form] to Whole FoodsHi. I went to the Kirby location for lunch on Monday. While there, I asked [the hot deli] team when they'd have Moroccan Chicken again, because I really like it. They told me to come back Wednesday (today). So I drove over after work in order to pick it up for dinner. They didn't have the chicken. A female clerk on staff apologized, then suggested that I speak to the manager. I said I didn't want to wait. But she said he'd find a way to make it up to me -- that maybe he would have the staff prepare the chicken the next day and then give it to me on the house, for my trouble. I thanked her and started to leave, but then the manager, Andre, walked up. The female clerk explained the situation to him.
He said, "Oh, I don't think we make that salad anymore."
The clerk explained again that it was chicken, and that the staff had told me to come back for it today.
Andre suggested that I come back the next day or Saturday. I said I didn't want to do that. He suggested that next time, I call ahead. I asked why I should call ahead if showing up in person hadn't worked. He had no response, other than "Sorry!" with an insincere smile. He was very glib about it, and didn't seem to fully comprehend what had happened.
I wasn't *too* upset, because I figured that the staff had misunderstood me on Monday, and there was nothing Andre could really do about it, anyway. But his uncaring attitude had annoyed me a little.
I went to put back my other purchases, not wanting to stand in line for just a few things. As I did this, I overheard Andre complaining about me to clerk at the cold deli. He was shrugging his shoulders and saying, "Well, what was I supposed to do?"
Maybe you guys can give Andre some tips on what to do when customers drive to his location after work in order to buy an item that his staff has incorrectly said would be available.
Maybe you can at least instruct Andre to carefully look around his department and make sure the unsatisfied customer is gone, before he starts talking about said customer to his coworker friends.
Or, hey -- maybe you can demote Andre and promote the female clerk in his place, since she actually had some ideas about providing customer service?
An Open Email to Central Market
To Whom It May Concern:
Hi. I am a frequent Central Market shopper and prefer you guys to Whole Foods.
The only thing Whole Foods has that you guys are missing is Moroccan Chicken. Their deli sometimes has chicken that's been marinated with olives and preserved lemons.
Unfortunately, they aren't very reliable about providing that chicken, or even about telling customers the correct day to show up and purchase said chicken.
Do you think you guys could make a similar, Moroccan sort of chicken? I'm sure it isn't copyrighted or anything -- Whole Foods' tastes a lot like the chicken tagine you can get at Saffron and other Moroccan restaurants.
I hope that you'll consider it.
Sincerely,
Gwen
Labels: chicken with olives and preserved lemons, Houston, venting
7:34 PM # (9) commentsSunday, August 10, 2008
le sighIt's Sunday night and I have to go to work tomorrow, just like most of everybody else.
And I like my new job, but I always feel now like I get home so late that weekend evenings don't even count as free time... there's only barely enough time there to, like, go to the bathroom and change out of my work clothes and feed myself and ask the kids if they fed themselves and make sure there's a work outfit for the next day at work...
that I feel really pressured, each weekend now, to get as much personal stuff done as possible...
and by Friday at 6 PM, I'm already overwhelmed by the futility of it. I already know there's no way I can get it all done.
Then, Sunday night, I'm kind of crying. Or would be, if I weren't so dehydrated from running around like a maniac in the 105-heat-index heat, trying to get stuff done.
At least I got the kids haircuts, and got one of them new shoes. And did half a birthday for the other.
Just typing that out makes me realize, anew, how much I didn't get done.
:I
Long Division
I can't remember what else I wanted to tell y'all.
There was stuff -- semi-clever observations of life sorta stuff -- but I can't remember while I'm sitting here stressing over how little time I have.
I just taught someone long division, because he didn't learn it in school. This person told me today, "Mom... Can you teach me long division today? I still don't understand it, and I don't want to go back to school in two weeks not knowing it."
So I taught him, with much empathy, because I remember not being able to get that shit straight when I learned it in fourth grade. And then the 5th grade teacher pairing me up with some dude I didn't like so that he could teach me, because she didn't have time to teach me while the rest of the class was moving on to something else.
So it's apparently genetic, this hard-time-with-long-division gene. So now I can expect my son to have the same trouble with calculus, because I didn't understand calculus at all until the end of the year, when a kindly Rice professor volunteered to teach it to me the weekend before finals.
My son said, after I taught him, "They taught me, but with a bunch of little stories that just made it more confusing. Like, there was something about Santa Claus going up on the roof and dropping remainders down the chimney. I couldn't understand."
Me: "Oh my God. How can anyone learn math from crappy, unseasonable metaphors?"
My son: "Right."
And, in teaching my son long division, I noted other math skills he needed to learn. So now, some time during a break at work tomorrow, I need to find some teaching tools online and print them out, then take them home with me and hurry up and teach my kid more math skills tomorrow, in the 2.5 hours between my rush hour commute and bed time.
Oh, yeah... and then I have to finish writing a novel.
Dude
My oldest son, meanwhile, just turned 16. So, of course, 9 billion people have told me this week, "I can't believe you have a 16-year-old son."
Really? I can. I've been living with this kid for 16 years now. I can totally believe it.
I guess it's supposed to be a compliment -- that I look too young to have a kid that old. Unless, of course, you take it as shock and the dawning realization "OMG, this was a teen mom!
Or, unless you take it as people telling you that you don't seem mature enough to parent a teen?
Some time after that, I was at a social function where more than one person made witty remarks about the fact that I drink and say curse words in front of said 16-year-old son. Like, "Nice parenting skills, Gwen," said with sarcasm-dripping voices.
These were all people my age who had toddlers or babies only, mind you.
So I just didn't say anything. Well, eventually, I did say, "He's on the honor roll. Is your kid on the honor roll?"
But even that was too much. In the same way that I used to ignore criticism from kidless people, I'm now having to ignore criticism from people who only have babies and toddlers. I don't know what these people are thinking -- that they're awesome for cursing and drinking only when their babies are tucked away safely with their babysitters?
And what happens after that, when the babies get older? What am I doing wrong -- being myself in front of my kids? Failing to lie to them about how grown-ups have a good time? Failing to shelter them from reality? Failing to put on an alternate persona whenever they're not at the babysitter's? Or failing to leave them at the babysitter's in the first place? (That last item is probably the real answer.)
I'm so far removed from the conformist social mindset, as far as parenting goes these days, that I don't even know what that mindset is anymore. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's nothing to lament.
A while back, someone had a party and I was there with my kids, and someone else was there with her toddler. And people drank, and the toddler got sleepy. So the toddler went to sleep on the couch.
And, of course, someone who only had a baby had to make a remark about that. "I feel sorry for Toddler," she said.
"Why?" I said.
"That's so terrible that she has to live like that," NewBabyMomma said. She pointed to the toddler, asleep on the couch, then pointed to the toddlers' parents, who were having a good time. Then, noble point made, she walked away.
A guy next to me said, "What is she talking about? When I was a kid, I fell asleep at grown-up parties all the time."
"So did I," I said.
And then, silently, we both felt sorry for NewBabyMomma's baby, who we assumed won't be getting to go to grown-up parties.
I see parenting I don't approve of, but I keep those opinions to myself.
I don't approve of the style of parenting that ends up with teenagers putting on a big phony innocent show for their parents, then getting drunk on the weekends with their friends, God knows where, without their parents' knowledge.
I don't approve of the style of parenting that involves telling your kids phony words about yourself, then proving yourself a liar with your behavior. If I tell my kids I don't drink and I don't curse, and then they stay up late one night and see me doing it when I think they're asleep, aren't I only teaching my children that they're supposed to grow up and lie?
I see other parents do this shit, and I just think, "Better them than me." You know? Because I'm taking care of my family, and I don't have time to monitor anyone else's.
I had a duel with an old man.
One of my neighbors, an elderly gentleman, came to my yard the other day and started lecturing me about my lawn.
I don't like to be rude to old people, but I also don't like strangers telling me what to do. So he and I argued, as heatedly and yet as politely as possible.
In the end, we reached understanding. I think we even acheived mutual respect. We were very much alike, this know-it-all old man and me.
The funniest part is that, while we were having it out in my front yard, one of our other neighbors (one who hasn't spoken to me since asking me what church I attended and hearing the answer "none") was standing in his yard, gawking and eavesdropping like old Mrs. Kravitz from the Bewitched TV show. I would have pointed at him and laughed, if I hadn't been busy making my points to the old man who was trying to make his points to me.
The old man was trying to convince me that:
1. I have chinch bugs, not fertilizer burn.
2. I should have known that I had chinch bugs, not fertilizer burn.
3. If I had no way of knowing the difference between chinch bugs and fertilizer burn, I should have preempted their existence by seeking the advice of neighbors with nice lawns.
4. Since I failed at numbers 1, 2 and 3 listed above, I had proven myself an uncaring lawn mistress who was unworthy of neighbors coming by with friendly advice.
I tried to convince the old man that:
1. I obviously had fertilizer burn, not chinch bugs.
2. The knowledgeable, helpful neighbors were obviously the ones who had already helped me determine that I had fertilizer burn, and were not the ones who avoided me until this day.
3. I was not uncaring -- I was busting my butt at a job all day and had already spent a considerable amount of my paychecks trying to fix the fertilizer burn, and therefore needed no unneighborly old men lecturing me this late in the game.
In the end, cold logic won out. I have chinch bugs, and so do my two friendly neighbors. The old man does not, and therefore we all should have applied to him for advice.
Also, the old man was not in the wrong for avoiding us all. Because, seriously, how could you expect him to visit people who don't seem to care about their lawns?
Today I met up with my two friendly neighbors and informed them that they had chinch bugs. Then, I told them how to fix it, just like the old man told me. They told me that they'd seen me having it out with the old man, but weren't sure whether or not to intervene, since our arguing was so polite that they couldn't be sure that's what we had actually been doing.
I like the old man now. He's pretty awesome. I'm going to buy him a plant and write him a thank-you note, I think.
The hardcore Christian guy across the street, though? I have to say I've lost a little respect for him. A little more, I guess.
>:)
That's all.
Time for bed now. I'll spend a few minutes at my new hobby, first, though.
My new hobby is so terrible and borderline OCD-ish, I'm not even sure I should tell it to y'all.
Should I?
My new hobby: Checking out cookbooks from the library, marking the recipes I like, then xeroxing them and putting them into a Recipe Binder I made.
Why am I doing that? I don't know. I don't even like to cook. Everybody knows this. My kids are like, "Uh..." and then they're thinking, "Don't say anything aloud about mom's new OCD-ish hobby, which is totally nonsensical since she totally hates to cook."
And yet, this new hobby soothes me. So I do it, when I can, for a minute or two before I sleep at night.
I hope y'all's OCD-ish hobbies are soothing, that your lawns are chinch-bug-free, and that you all sleep well tonight.
Labels: chinch bugs, domestic, neighbors, obessions, parenting
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Not again!Sheila: I'm about to go look at your buffalo head princess
me: yay!!!!!
Sheila: but you should call me and tell me about the australians. that bewildered me
me: ok.
but I have to do DDR first for 40 min, bc I ate pizza. okay? i call you around 9, from my bed.
hurry and look at buck rogers and the princess
Sheila: lol i see it. im completely lost
me: in love with her, you mean?
and her futuristic stripper dancing?
Sheila: hes ridiculous
me: i know!
his stupid face!
PS, my dad dances like that when he's super drunk.
Sheila: its called gettin down
me: or used to
gettin dow-w-w-wn
that's woman's body isn't even that good, and yet i love her
Sheila: oh my god
im watching again
me: then you have to go to youtube and see all the parodies of it
and then drunken batman dancing
Sheila: oh my jesus
thats the most ridiculous thing ive seen, maybe ever
me: bidi bidi bidi
Sheila: booo
gy
drunken batman?
can what i just watched be embedded?
me: adam west in the '60s. with a chick named molly
embedded: don't know
Sheila: how do i find drunk batman
me: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1RqxHQOG7w
" a large fresh orange juice, please"
Sheila: shes hot
me: i like how Robin's jerking off in the car
Sheila: she acts like kim cattrall
does batman special mean something sinister
me: i knew you'd like her, btw
maybe.
i thought it meant bartender stocked oj just for batman
Sheila: hhahaha what the fuck is robin doing
‘you Interest me, strangely’
oh lord
me: he's jerking it to the sight of batman dancing, obvs
Sheila: is he showing off his satiny satiny gloves?
me: heh
i always liked him. and his gayness
i was a kindergarten fag hag
Sheila: oh my god
shes so useless
me: who? the chick?
Sheila: lmao that was the best collection of videos, ever
yeah, when he falls she starts screaming before it happens and then steps away like she's avoiding something disgusting
hilarious body language
me: that's how women had to be back then.
avoiding the ODs, the vomit
Sheila: cradling his satin cape in the crook of his satiny arm
jesus
i know - haha - it seems really realistic
like, AHHH! i cant believe im dancing with a drunk!
me: he's a real satin man/ sitting in his satin land/ making satin satin satin nobody...
Sheila: lolol
oh god
i feel like i might be 10 or 11 and we're watching this new series called batman
me: it's almost time for me to leave you and do DDR. don't let it hurt your feelings when that happens.
aussies: roadtripnation.com
Sheila: i will not. i have to go -- ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i remember now - i have to go walk the dog
like, 10 minutes ago
me:
[hating and ranking deleted]
Sheila: why you always gotta be the mom, yo
me: because my uterus is all stretched out already
i tried to be the big sister. maybe that's what happened, instead
Sheila: its not all you though
not to get into this again
but people just expect that of you
me: i guess
but i must radiate that vibe
Sheila: yeah
probably its you
me: i do it whenever i'm trying to be helpful
can't help it.
learned it at my aunt's knee
it's okay. i'm a good mom.
Sheila: you try to make people comfortable in a certain way
me: why not share the... whatever
Sheila: thats occasionally maternal
lol milk?
me: yeah -- with my boobs
and food
(milk = both. you said it.)
Sheila: lol hahahaha
awesome
me: i felt bad for [delete]
but i was like "get used to it"
LIFE IS BREAST MILK, BITCHES
Sheila: was she traumatized?
lmao god
me: maybe a little, for now
she'll get over it with a quickness
me: IT'S ALL BODILY FLUIDS. DO NOT DIFFERENTIATE
heh
you're right. sadness
but she'll get over it, and ask him to go back.
sorry for all caps. i slightly manic
Sheila: me too. is ok.
isokays? wtf
me: iz oks
Sheila: you have mastered the lolcats and i have, not.
HA i knew youd know
i bought a lamp today
me: iz oks. i still wuvz u.
from?
Sheila: jesus. too much cute
me: ikea?
Sheila: from bj oldies.
no, so much hate for ikea now
now that i have world market furniture, i have no desire to walk through that nonsense
its that milk white glass
is purdy
me: ooh
Sheila: thats my breaking news. everything else from today has been very boring, but the lamp is nice.
me: heh
plus your boobs look good lately. don't forget that.
Sheila: oh yeah? oh, in that shirt
me: and the pool photo
u can haz weihgt gainz?
Sheila: lol haha, well they're floating in both those circumstances
i can haz?
yes please, thank god.
Sheila: ok im going to go walk the dog and you go do your ddr and ill talk to you later on
me: ok.
bye tater
Sheila: lolol
thats an appropriate expression of laughing for longer than a second isnt it?
me: yes
good job
Sheila: jesus. call me later. bye
me: byes
Labels: breastmilk, breasts, Buck Rogers, chat, lookism, psychobabble
8:30 PM # (2) commentsTuesday, July 29, 2008
bus story 1It’s always cold on the bus. For that reason, I kind of hate riding it in the mornings, especially when I’m wearing a skirt without hose or tights or leg warmers, as is sometimes mandated by fashion in the summer time. But everyone has their crosses to bear, right?
This morning I got on the bus without hose or tights or legwarmers, and it was very cold. I put my iPod (my Sony Walkman iPod) into my ears and hugged myself into as compact a shape as possible.
The bus starts filling up, and this guy gets on. He’s a small guy, ethnic origin somewhere on the Eastern Hemisphere. He sits by me, and I take care not to sigh or jut out my elbow or even look at him, because I hate it when I’m forced to sit by someone else on the bus, and that someone else makes it clear that they’re annoyed and that they’d been wishing that their $3 fare would have somehow paid for two seats. I mean, I get annoyed when strangers sit next to me, too, and I wish my $3 bought me a force shield from strangers, too. But that’s not the way Metro works, is it?
So I’m sitting there, trying to be polite and only feeling a little bit sorry for myself, when I realize that the guy sitting next to me is hot. Not attractive-hot, but temperature hot. He’s radiating heat like a furnace. I peeked at him as much as manners would allow, but he didn’t seem to be feverish or on fire. He was just radiating heat, somehow. Like, from the inside.
I decided, then, that he must have been a demon. Either that or an elemental, but most likely a demon, because I don’t imagine elementals looking like people or wanting to ride the bus. I glanced again and saw that he was reading a text full of arcane-sounding words. (Cold fusion? HP 3200?) That seemed to confirm his supernatural nature.
I turned my face away from the demon man and, for a split second, felt uncomfortable. Then, I felt good. I felt warm. I’d been cold before, but this demon dude was literally generating enough heat to make up for the fact that I had no pantyhose on under my sandals and knee-length skirt. It felt nice, like a cozy fire.
I wondered, then, what it meant to take comfort from a demon. Was it safe? Was I unintentionally giving away my soul?
Really, there was nothing to fear. In every story I’ve ever heard on the subject, demons can’t possess your soul unless you give them verbal permission. And you have to invite them onto your premises, in the first place. Right? I’d invited this demon nowhere, as we were sitting in a public place. I hadn’t said anything to him at all. As long as I kept my Sony Walkman iPod in my ears and minded my own business, I could warm myself with the demon fire and keep my soul and its first serial rights. He wasn’t even a big demon, anyway. I didn’t think he could carry me if he wanted to.
The warmth made me sleepy and I drifted through dreams as pawn shops and Adult Video Stores sped by. “Is this,” I wondered, “how it starts? Can people get possessed in their sleep? Is demon heat a roofie?”
But we made it downtown okay. Someone rang the bell and, like zombies awoken, several of the passengers stood up and stumbled out into the sunlight as filtered by skyscrapers. The demon got up to let me pass and didn’t even spare me a glance.
I didn’t realize why until now, after typing all this. I’ve already been marked by someone else. My soul is the property of Corporate America.
intro to bus stories 2, 3, and 4
So I recently bought myself an MP3 player as a reward for a job well done. (What job is that, you ask? The job that is being myself.) And, now that I have one, I see that there's a secret world I've been missing out on but am now a part of.
Before I had an MP3 player, I didn't want to know anything about them, because I hate window shopping. You know? I don't want to hear about stuff I can't afford, in general. But then they got cheap, so I decided to get one, so I did my research and picked the one with the most battery life.
(Also, I waited to get one because I just had no use for one before. But now that I have a job where we're allowed to listen to them (and where our laptops have no soundcards), and now that I ride the bus instead of driving my van and listening to my own CDs...)
Before I had an MP3 player, I ignored people who had them. I purposely spaced out when people talked about them. But not anymore.
Now, when I ride the bus, I notice who's listening to music and who's not. And I notice that other people notice it, too.
bus story 2
The other day, I was on the bus and I busted out my [Sony Walkman] iPod (which I will call an ipod from now on, because screw Corporate America and their branding. kleenexes! xeroxing!! orange and lemon cokes!!!).
I turned on my music and went to the place where I go to when my music's on. It's a place in my mind, and it's a combination night club, costume party, trip abroad, and Houston's Galleria mall.
So I was there, and I don't know if it showed on my face or what, but the guy sitting across from me smiled at me.
Not in a creepy way, but in a sort of empathetic yet wistful way. Like he could tell that I was happy, and he was glad for me, and yet he maybe wished he had an ipod, too.
He seemed like a nice guy, actually. But I didn't smile back. I just blinked at him and then looked away.
I don't smile at strange men. Especially not on the bus.
bus story 3
Right after that, the angry-looking man next to the nice-looking man gave us both a glare. Really, he just gave a long, long glare that encompassed us, all the other passengers, and everything else on earth.
Then, the angry-looking man looked at my ear buds. Then, he took some earbuds out of his pocket and attached them to his phone.
I don't know if y'all know this, but a lot of newer phones are also ipods now. Seriously. They are.
The angry-looking guy turned on his phone ipod, and then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I hoped that his music made him feel better. I wondered what song he was listening to, but there was no way I could ask.
bus story 4
Today I rode the bus home and I listened to my ipod. Of course. Across from me, an older woman sat there with white ear buds in her own ears. And she kept glancing at me.
"What is this woman looking at?" I thought. But that question didn't make me as angry as it used to, because I had my ipod on and it's hard to get angry when I'm in my music place.
The woman glanced and glanced, and then, when I had to adjust my volume, I pulled my ipod out of my bra, out of the neck of my shirt, and did so. And then the woman kept looking, but her look became very thoughtful. I thought that maybe she was noting my clever idea of going hands-free with the use of my bra. She was maybe thinking, "Wow. It fits in there so well. I wouldn't have even guessed she had an ipod in her bra."
Then, the woman lifted her own ipod from her lap. It was a real iPod, and it had a leather case with an apple on it and everything. When she lifted it and opened the case, she glanced at me again.
I couldn't help but suspect that she wanted me to notice her. I suspected that she'd just gotten that new ipod, maybe for a gift or maybe she went right into the apple store and bought it for herself, for a job well done.
She flicked at the buttons and I wondered how many songs she had. I wondered which ones were her favorites.
She glanced at me again. I smiled at her and then I closed my eyes.
moral of the story
If we were in Japan, our ipods would send out signals to each other, and we'd know when we were near another person who likes the same songs that we do.
But we're not in Japan. So all we can do is imagine, and then empathize.
Right?
Labels: Catholicism, Houston, materialism, music, pop culture, stories, superstition, the bus
7:22 PM # (11) commentsThursday, July 24, 2008
girl clothesIt's good for women who care about their image to be friends with women who also care about their image and who have a similar taste level.
Because you know how shallow people ask if women dress for men or for other women? I dress for myself, but having a female peer inspires me to greater heights in that regard.
Hence, I bought the silver sandals.
actually learning at a training thing
At my job today, my dept was forced to take a time management seminar. Basically, it was punishment for the actions of one or two disorganized people. I was super, duper annoyed with the situation, because I had a lot of work to get done today and I'm normally very efficient at work, but it's hard to be efficient when you're taking a four hour course about time management.
So I went in as a hostile witness, basically. I was determined to learn nothing. I admit it.
But then, of course, I did learn a little. I learned tips for managing my personal time, and also several things about myself. Here they are:
1. I manage my time super efficiently at work.
2. I don't manage my time as well at home.
3. I have a Type A personality, relatively, for a girl.
4. My job takes up too much of my time now.
5. Instead of trying to help people by trying to figure out the answers to questions I don't already know, I should totally send them to the person who knows and save us both the time.
6. I would probably make a benevolent dictator of a manager.
7. I hate the word veggies a lot and need to add it to my list of words and phrases that annoy the living shit out of me, such as comfy, hubby, baby bump, sweet spot, and tongue bath.*
You want to know the tip they taught me that's going to help my personal life? You make a Master List. You put on it all the stuff that you have to do in the conceivable future. (I already do that, but here's the key:)
Then you use that to make Daily Lists each day. You only fill the Daily Lists with stuff you really need to do that day, or stuff you could reasonably accomplish in one day.
See, the Master List is to clear your mind. The Daily List is the real to-do list.
See? Up til now, I've been making periodic, mile-long Master Lists and then getting disheartened when they take more than a week to finish. But this way, you don't put unrealistic pressure on yourself to complete everything in an unrealistic time frame. You see??
Maybe you already knew that. Maybe you took the same seminar. I'm pretty sure one of my friends has taken it, because she talks about "eating [her] veggies" at work (meaning, getting least pleasant tasks out of the way) and
R-R-RE-E-E-E-E-ETCH
Sorry. I really hate that word.
The older I get,
the more I like to hang around with secure and successful people. I especially like to talk to super successful people and ask them nosy questions about their lives. The most successful ones are always willing to tell you everything, I find. I think they get lonely, successful people. I think they don't often meet people who want to know what they really do and who'll understand the answers. Because, unfortunately, a lot of people are insecure haters. Insecure haters don't seek to understand -- they just make assumptions and then hate.
You know what I mean?
Like, you'll meet a rich real estate guy, and people will say, "Oh, he's just rich because he's a sell-out" or "because he's good looking" or "because he plays the race card" or "because he kisses ass."
But then, if you walk up to that guy and say, "So how'd you make your money?" he will straight-up tell you, "I heard that the Indians wanted in on our hotel market, but they didn't know our business culture well enough to approach it yet. So I researched their culture and then offered my services as a liaison for a decent-sized cut."
And you're like, "Sweet."
Because how can you hate on somebody for being smart/successful/awesome, unless you're just someone who hates anyone who's doing better than you?
You can't. Come on. Seriously.
something else I learned today
If you are my fan, then you like what I create. You might think that means that you like me, but you could be wrong. Because you don't really know me. You might assume that you'd like me, then see or read something that makes you realize that you really, really don't. And it's okay if you only like what I make and not who I am. That happens to me all the time... I like music made by people who are assholes.
If you are my friend, then you like who I am. Because you know me in real life, so to speak.
I guess it's okay if you're my friend and you don't like what I create. I guess.
I talk/think about that with my arty friends sometimes, actually -- what it means if we like each other, but not each others' work.
I think I need to have both kinds of people in my life. Not "fans," per se, with all those connotations... but people who like me, and also people who like my work, whether or not those groups overlap very much.
It's bed time now.
I'm sad/pissed/resigned because I wanted to play World of Warcraft for a little bit, but, instead, I spent an hour and fifteen minutes on the phone with AT&T and then with Yahoo, trying to get my remote DVR function straight.
And now I'm gonna go to bed, then wake up and go back to work and work my butt off. And... I like my new job a lot, actually, but I don't like that it feels like I'm always there now. (Or else always in my van or on the bus, on the way there or on the way back.) I feel like my free time can't live up to my hopes anymore, and like my life is rushing by, week by week.
Then again, tomorrow is Jeans Day. Yay! Jeans Day!
That's all, for real.
I'm not going to play WoW. I'm going to bed. Seriously.
Talk to y'all later. I have more to tell you, but it's time for bed.
* Typing those made me grind my teeth.
Labels: materialism, vanity, venting, work
10:48 PM # (12) commentsTuesday, July 22, 2008
Don't be mad.Sorry I've been the worst blog updater in the world lately. But you know how it goes. Blah blah excuses go here.
Important Stuff
I got some awesome sandals on sale at TJ Maxx today. I ate some awesome Indian food. The cats are doing good, but won't stop date-raping each other.
Books!
I read The Yoko-something Officers' Club, by Sarah Bird, and enjoyed it.
I read The Bostonians, by Henry James, and it totally upset and traumatized me, until finally it led to understanding of my own young life.
I read Maurice, by E. M. Forster, and it made me feel sorry for Victorian gays and for Victorian peeps in general, because they never had sex, and it messed with their minds.
I read a bunch of cookbooks, even though I don't like to cook.
Suburban Woe
I accidentally burned up all the grass on my front lawn, with fertilizer, and finally ended up replacing it with sod. It took a long time, because St. Augustine sod is hard to find in Houston this time of year. Apparently.
So I bought all this new grass, which looked half dead, and now I have to water the living hell out of it every single day. Just like my neighbors, who don't even have new grass. I bought a new kind of sprinkler, too. It hasn't rained at all lately.
So then, yesterday, they started warning us that there might be a hurricane or, as British people pronounce it on NPR, hurrakin.
And my first thought was, "Oh, hell yes. Please let there be a hurracane."
And the news was like, "Jesus Christ! Fill up your gas tanks now! Governor Perry is readying the school bus fleet in San Antonio!"
Then I talked to some neighbors and coworkers, and they were like, "I kind of hope we have a hurricane so I can quit watering my lawn."
And I was like, "Me, too!"
Before the Lousiana/Mississippi tragedy, we were never afraid of hurracanes in Houston. They happen in the waters near here pretty often, and as long as the ground isn't saturated beforehand, nothing really happens.
But I'm glad we have disaster plans in place now. Better safe than sorry.
But I hope we get a few thunderstorms, at least. We really need some rain right now. I hope it's not a sin to say so.
Movies!
We saw The Dark Knight and it scared me, to imagine people being so evil and crazy.
I hate crazy people, lately. If you're crazy and you're reading this, don't mess with me. Don't talk to me. Stop leaving me comments. Got it?
We saw Wall-E, and it was beautiful. I saw it twice, actually. Tears ran down my face the whole time, both times.
You either saw that one already, and you believe me, or else you haven't seen it and you don't. It's okay. I understand that some people categorically hate Disney, or hate animated movies, or hate leftist conspiracies to make conservatives feel guilty. (Or whatever.) But if you saw Wall-E and liked it, then I'm glad for you. Write to me privately and tell me what your favorite part was. If you want.
That's all for now.
I need to get off the computer and go work out. I'm in the mood to work out! Y'all wish me luck setting up Dance Dance Revolution, without my kids here to help me. My kids are all with their dad for the moment. That means I can't play console games or even watch TV, pretty much, because I don't know all the wires and controllers like they do. Feel sorry for me, y'all. Wish me luck figuring it out.
But mostly, send my grass vibes, okay? Send it "grow well soon" vibes. And wish for us to get a lot of rain, but not enough to hurt anyone.
Love,
Gwen
Labels: books, domestic, Houston, pop culture
8:06 PM # (13) commentsWednesday, July 09, 2008
Linkelodeon!From Ashley: The New Republic interprets Barrack Obama through his writing. I was surprised to find them compare Obama to Henry James, with whom I am lately semi-obsessed.
Also from Ashley: The NY Times profiles Rush Limbaugh and almost makes me pity him, but then, not. Which is what they're good at doing, I've noticed: Showing you the hate-able-ness, then showing a little that's empathy-worthy, then coming on full strength with more evidence of hate-ability. Love it.
From Marq: This artist makes plastic bags into inflatable animals that only appear when the subway rolls under the grates that they're tied to.
Christina Ricca Cat disapproves.
Benny Bennassi feat. The Bravery
Weird-ass Benny Benassi remix of "California Dreamin'".
I found the two above when trying to find my favorite Bravery song for you guys and for my friend Brie, and then finally I found my favorite Bravery song, but only in one of those homemade videos that people make (inexplicably to me) with anime characters. Why do people make those? Someone please explain.
Whoa. There is a web site dedicated to making anime music videos, and they hold contests and everything.
From Mike: Italian Spiderman.
Meta links!
This post I wrote in 2005 has become a repository for complaints by and about Kroger employees, as you will note in its comments.
It replaces, in my heart, this post I wrote in 2004 that became a touchstone for people searching for the Mervyn's online survey.
The most-read post of the past two months is the one about my cats having sex on my bed. I wanted to find the most-read posts ever, but my stats won't tell me that.
Here are the web searches that most often lead people to my site:
"topless bar"
"dress patterns"
"reggie aqui gay"
"boobsquad gwen"
"jehovas witness"
"kroger sucks"
"women of telemundo"
"is reggie aqui gay"
"gwen bitter asian men"
"hairstyles for fat women"
"emo acronym"
"club adventure"
"reggie aqui gay?"
"blt party"
I don't mind when people criticize my blog, but it bothers me a little when they misread it.
Dear SmugWatch Dude:
I do not do yoga. Please be less assumptive in your smugness watchdogging.
Thank you.
Labels: links
12:26 AM # (13) commentsTuesday, July 08, 2008
recent dream themes, for Ashley's eyes only(And for whoever else can stand to read them or who likes to interpret dreams.)
1. Again and always with the dreams that I'm tricked into living with and/or marrying my ex-husband. KHAN! Last time I had a really involved one, in which I'd won a "dream" wedding from Sears/Macy's. When I showed up to participate in it -- a little late, a little tipsy, feeling celebratory -- I found that the department store had misplaced my wedding gown and wanted to offer me a shitty Miss Texas sheath, instead. By the time I got that ironed out with a late-night shoplifting trip at a nearby costume shop and a run-in with the local Mafia, I was getting worried that it was too late to marry my fiance on Sears/Macy's' dime.
And then I arrive and see that the groom is my ex-husband. And the preacher is preaching, and I feel like it's rude, at that point, to interrupt the ceremony and call off the wedding. And yet I'm determined to do it. And then I wake up.
Annoying-o-freaking-rama, as you can imagine. This dream is obviously about my annoyance with my never-ending forced involvement with that person, which always occurs against my wishes.
2. I always, always dream about monster fruit plants. Usually I dream that there are monster fruit stalks growing in my dad's backyard, or next door to his house, and I'm trying to cultivate or harvest them, but people keep interrupting me and no one seems to value the fruit like I do.
But lately I've dreamed that I'm trying to purchase monster fruit plants on sale from various places. The weirdest thing about it, as I already told you on the phone, Ashley, is that, in the dream, I never realize how unusually freaky the fruit plants are. In the dream, they're just valuable/awesome/beautiful/desired. When I wake up, though, I realize that they were kind of monstrous. They're like corn stalks covered with bunches and bunches of giant plums that are stuck together like testicles. Or, like, giant brocolli stalks covered with giant, blood red, tumorous peaches. They are fruit plants to be feared, but not when I'm dreaming them. In my dream, they're something to covet and acquire.
I don't know if they mean money or artistic acheivement. Maybe both.
3. I used to always dream that I was trying to ride the Metro bus somewhere, and I got on the wrong bus or couldn't find the right bus stop, and it was getting later and I was getting into more dangerous parts of town...
But lately those dreams have shifted into something else. I ride the Metro bus and get off downtown, before it can carry me somewhere wrong. Because I know that, downtown, I can transfer to the exact right route. So I'm downtown, trying to figure out where to get the right bus, and I try to take a shortcut by going through one of the big buildings that I used to work in or used to walk through when I was a teenager.
And then it turns into some thing where I'm screwing around on the elevators. I don't know why. Sometimes I need to get on the elevator because it's one of those buildings where the ground is uneven and can be on G or 1 or P, depending on what side of the block you're facing. But usually it seems that I want to be wicked and nosy and ride up the elevator to see what I can see. Maybe even to steal something. And then, eventually, the elevators take us someplace weird or scary, like a boiler room. But I don't care. It kind of thrills me and I keep riding. And the other riders, even though they're dressed in business casual and I'm not, don't question my right to be there. Sometimes they even follow me, as if I know what I'm doing.
I don't know what this dream means. Maybe that I feel like I don't belong in Corporate America, but I'm doing well there, anyway?
4. Sometimes I dream about stealing the purses of rich old ladies. Their purses are always ugly, but I steal them. And then I feel guilty. But also excited. The goal in those dreams is always to stop someplace safe so I can open the purses and see what I reeled in. But I never do get to stop, and usually I lose the purses while on the run.
I know this dream says something bad about me, like maybe I resent rich people and have a chip on my shoulder and covet other people's stuff.
5. Three or four times now, I've dreamed that we visited New York. Usually it's by accident, maybe because Houston's Metro bus took us there without us noticing. Once we get there, we want to make the best of it and have fun, but we don't know where to go, and the natives aren't helpful. Or else we're afraid to ask them because we assume they won't be helpful, because I read Gawker and Overheard in New York all the time, and they give me the impresssion that native New Yorkers are assholes who take pleasure in being rude to tourists.
So we end up driving/riding/walking around the city, finding our own fun. In one dream we shopped in Chinatown at night. In one we found a carnival in the middle of Manhattan. In the last one, I walked through a Lithuanian apartment complex and looked into everyone's dining room.
This dream says that I crave adventure but don't have the means to get it on a grand scale, maybe.
the cats, good and bad
I like it when the cats lie near me like curved slugs, with their arms and legs tucked under them.
I don't like it when Starbuck scratches the glass patio door because she wants to go outside. Like all cats, she only wants to be outside if we leave the door hanging open so she can come back in at will. But then flies get in. So she can only go out if we close the door behind her. So she only stays out for a few minutes, then scratches at the door so we can open it. Then, of course, as all cat owners can guess, she's back at the door thirty seconds later, scratching to get out.
And the sound of her claws on the glass is very, very, VERY annoying. So I yell at her to stop. But she seems to think that me wanting her to stop is only a very temporary condition. So she goes back to the scratching again and again, until I take more drastic action.
And that is not one of the highlights of having cats as pets.
Equal opportunity: I don't like it when Toby acts possessive over me. Sometimes it's funny, but then sometimes he gets all testosterone-y about it and I have to remind him that I'm a human being and not his conquest, and I have to throw him off my bed or whatever. And then he gets pissy and takes it out on Starbuck. Which is probably why she always wants to go outside all the time?
I just realized that my cats might be living in a Sartre-esque hell of my making. But oh, well. It's better than living at the county shelter, I'm sure.
the photo thing
I feel like I've said this before, but need to say it again and will do so as simply and directly as I can.
1. I only put pictures of myself online if I think I look good in them. So, if there's a picture of me on this site or on my Flickr, even if it's not a stereotypically "good" picture, one can rest assured that I like the way I look in that picture. "I'm Gwendolyn Zepeda, and I approve this photo." Like that. Usually, I only want to share a photo because I like the way it looks.
2. But it's hard to say that. It's hard to say, "Hey, y'all, I think I look awesome in this photo. Check it out. Check out this awesome picture, the subject of which happens to be me-e-e-e!" So, I don't. I skip that part and talk about the more modest other part, like "This is how much I weigh" or "This is an old t-shirt I wear" or "This is a new hair color for me."
3. And then I always manage to come off like I dislike the way I look, or like I need reassurance. And then people (very nice people) are quick to reassure me and tell me that I look nice/pretty/good/decent.
4. And then I feel guilty and gauche, like I was fishing for compliments. When I wasn't. Wanting to share a nice picture isn't the same as fishing for compliments, is it? I don't think it is. Not for me, at any rate.
5. And then I bury the picture under a lot of other pictures or posts, because I am embarrassed.
Does all that make me crazy? No, I know: It means I over-analyze the shit out of my motivations and the impression I'm making on others.
But that's okay.
In related news: There's this person in my life who makes me a little nervous because she's always commenting on things that I say or do. Like telling me to relax or telling me that it seems like I worry too much. And, when this person does that, it makes me way less relaxed than I'd normally be. And I don't think this person does it to be annoying -- I think this person does it because that's normally what people want to hear from this person. And, finally, the other day, I had to tell this person that I liked myself the way I was, and that the way I was totally worked for me and made me a success. And this person accepted that, and I was relieved.
There are two people in my life, actually, who are always telling me to chill out and to act more confident and not to let on that I feel worried or insecure...
And I'm starting to think that these two people, who seem super confident and secure, actually aren't. And that they're telling me all this in order to remind themselves.
But I'm okay, really. I swear to God, if I didn't like myself and have self-confidence and feel secure, I wouldn't be able to talk about myself so much on the Internet, would I? Not for eleven years, I couldn't. Really, it takes all the false modesty I can muster to keep you guys from realizing how conceited I really am.
Think about it.
Don't worry about me, people who worry. I'm happy.
the other day
I played Rock Band with my son and his friends who'd come over for a slumber party. I played because no one else wanted to sing, and they needed a singer for extra points. "Want me to sing?" I said.
"Your mom sings on Rock Band?" one of the friends asked my son Josh.
"Uh, yeah. My mom's, like, a trained singer," said my son Dallas. But not in an "I'm so proud of my mom" way. It was more like "Duh -- why wouldn't a grown-up who knows how to sing, sing on Rock Band?"
So we played, and it was fun because we stopped being mom and sons and friends of sons, and became a force. A team. A rock band. We had three rotating drummers who I assigned to songs according to their skill level. Aside from that, there was almost no talking. As the evident band leader, I reminded myself to praise each member after particularly difficult songs. But that was it. And we racked up some serious points. And I felt the same feeling I have when my coworkers and I get through a really tough project. (We unlocked "Enter Sandman" by Metallica, and that's my very best song. I'm going to sing that next time I go to a karaoke bar.)
I went to bed at 2 AM. The next morning, we woke up and went outside and saw one of my neighbors walking over from across the street. "I'm so tired," she said. "We stayed up all night playing Rock Band."
I'm telling you, man. The families that Rock together stay together.
I had a lot more to tell y'all but it's night now and I can't stay focused well at night. I'm really only worth anything (besides Rock Band) in the mornings. So hopefully I'll wake up early tomorrow and get some novel-writing done...
Y'all have a good night, okay? Y'all have good dreams. 9:59 PM # (4) comments
Sunday, July 06, 2008
I love to spend money, because I am American.Not even going to lie or feel ashamed: I am a straight-up consumerist. It makes me happy to spend money on random stuff that I probably don't need. It makes me feel secure. Rich, even. Even if some of the people working at Neiman Marcus don't agree. Today we went to the Galleria (frou frou Houston mall) and I bought a bunch of cheap jewelry and a cheap purse. Yesterday we went to Harwin (Houston wholesale district) and I bought... well, a bunch of cheap jewelry and a purse. Yes. Actually, Harwin was extra awesome because I ventured past the usual stores (Trendy Jewelry, called simply Trendy by those in the know, and the purse store with the drawings of purses all over it, and the Korean grocery store), and found a tiny store in the corner of a shopping center that had real Indian stuff. And I got an Indian beaded purse, plus several fabulous cheap Indian bracelets. Even a gold bangle with red beads, even though I never wear gold and hardly wear red. I love Indian stuff. But then, after that, we went to an Indian restaurant and I took my bracelet off, because I didn't want people to think that I was some kind of Caucasian person with an Indian culture fetish. (Because everyone knows that I have an Asian culture fetish, instead. Hello.)
I'll still pass judgement on other consumerists, though.
My boyfriend's sister got him a Coach belt for his birthday, but it was too big. So he drove us to the nearest outlet mall so we could switch the belt for something else.
When the newest local outlet mall first opened, there was a line outside the Coach store. Why? I don't know. I mean, I'm guessing it's because Coach is the newest expensive thing that poor people can almost kind of afford, right?
We went to the Coach store to return the belt, and there wasn't a line to get in, but the store was super crowded and had a snaky, cordonned line for the registers. I stood in line while my boyfriend searched for something to switch the belt for. All around me, poor girls stood in line to spend their week's paycheck on a monogrammed Coach bag.
Remember back in the '80s, when Coach didn't make monogrammed bags? When they only made bags in solid neutral leather, and their catalogs proclaimed how well made they were? And gold diggers asked for Gucci and ridiculed old women who carried Coach?
Remember when poor people were obsessed with Dooney and Burke, and everything with a D&B on it was valuable as gold, no matter how freaking ugly it was?
Remember when poor people were obsessed with Polo? With Tommy Hilfiger? With a bunch of brands that don't even exist anymore, but which were always emblazoned with logos or names?
I wished I could interview the poor people shopping at Coach and ask them what they were trying to buy. Do they literally believe that owning a Coach bag makes them look un-poor? Or maybe even negates their poorness?
I'm the same kind of snob my dad is. When we were children and we asked for clothing with branding or logos on it -- like, say, a Pepsi cap or a California Raisins t-shirt, my dad would say, "I'm not going to buy you a shirt that advertises someone else's product. Why should you pay to advertise for someone else? They should pay you, if they want you to wear that."
I absorbed that lesson and others, and now I'd rather go nude than wear something with a big, giant logo, or monograms splattered all over.
Also, I'd rather be poor again than be desperate to pretend I'm someone else.
I wish everyone was stronger and less concerned with bullshit. I mean, buy yourself crap -- I always do -- but buy it because you like it and not because you think someone else will respect you more if you shell out a certain amount of money. You know?
I don't know who I'm talking to, here. Those little kids at the Coach store don't read my blog, I'm pretty sure. :)
Labels: Houston, materialism
7:35 PM # (17) commentsshifted over to photo-blogging for a sec
Sometimes I'm in the mood to show y'all stuff instead of telling y'all stuff, and sometimes pictures are worth at least a paragraph or two.
See the empanadas I just destroyed, the fetish-y shoes I found at Ross, and exactly how fat/thin I am now.
Know that I'm reading all your comments and agreeing with them/ being educated with them/ appreciating them/ loving them. I just haven't had time to comment back lately.
(It's one thing when you have a job that you learn to do very well in the first year, and your boss refuses to promote you because you're just a silly girl and not a good old boy in a suit, and so you spend 4 years working for 2 hours per day and then goofing off online for the other 6 hours, every week day of your life. However, it's a whole other thing when you have a demanding job with a boss who respects you and people who appreciate your abilities. On the one hand, I no longer have as much time to respond to each of your comments. On the other hand, I no longer feel like calling in sick every other day for no reason at all. :) ) 6:41 PM # (2) comments
Saturday, June 28, 2008
recent food obsessionsI.
There's this place in Rice Village, in Houston, called Istanbul. They make Turkish food, which I guess is kind of like Greek food but not exactly. Case in point: their dolmas taste like the ones I've had at Greek restaurants, except sweeter, more subtly spiced, and more awesome. The first time I had them, it was 2 AM and I'd been drinking, so I wasn't even sure if I was imagining how awesome they were. But I wasn't. I went back there the other night and got three orders of them. The menu says "with sweet spices and fresh dill." They taste like cinnamon and maybe anise. I'm kind of obsessed with them.
II.
Similarly... Usually there is no good food to be had in my suburb. However, you can drive there on any given weekend and find a million billion children begging for money. They beg for bands, for choirs, for baseball teams, for Jesus, or anything. I usually give my cash to the kids who ask in the most professional way, or else kids who don't know at all how to ask for anything and subsequently get scolded by their parents and peers.
So, the other day, I was accosted by children in front of a chain store, and I gave a dollar to the kid whose older brother yelled at him, "You're not even doing it right!" Right after I gave that kid a dollar and he took it in a silent daze, I saw that there was also a bake sale. I walked over to examine the goods and let the very professional parents pitch to me. I bought a lemon bar and a piece of baklava. "Oh, those are interesting," one of the dads said. "[So-and-so's] mom makes those."
I don't know who so-and-so's mom is, but that woman made the most awesome baklava I've ever tasted in my life. I ate that stuff two months ago and wish to this day I could find that woman and buy a whole pan of it from her. Again, there were secret spices. I divined that there was grated pistachio, plus the normal baklava ingredients -- honey, butter, walnuts, philo -- but there was also something else. A spice, and not a sweet one. A very subtle bit of it. Was it coriander, maybe? Turmeric? Maybe it was fresh dill.
III.
Oh my god, I am so obsessed with Moroccan chicken right now -- the kind with preserved lemons and olives and raisins and olive oil -- that I can barely talk about it. First, I had it at this Houston restaurant called Saffron. That was my first time eating Moroccan food, and it totally turned me on to it. But they're only open for dinner, and we haven't had a chance to go back.
Then, the other day, we went to Whole Foods for groceries. (No, I don't buy my groceries there. I only buy a few things there that you can't buy anywhere else. I'm not rich, and even if I were, I wouldn't buy all my groceries at Whole Foods.) And, oh my god, Whole Foods' hot deli had chicken with preserved lemons and olives and raisins. And I was so happy, I almost cried. And I bought a pound of it, then drove it home and put it in the refrigerator, meaning to eat it for dinner the next day. Then, two hours after that, I took it out of the refrigerator and ate it all, cold, and it was so good I almost broke down sobbing.
And then I went back the other day to get some more, and they didn't have it, and I left Whole Foods without buying anything, and all the way to my car, I sang to that chicken: "How can I live without you? How can I... something, something, whatever? How can I ever, ever survi-i-i-ive?!"
But the chicken didn't answer.
I could probably go to Central Market and buy a jar of preserved lemons, yes, knowing as I do that that is the secret ingredient. But then what would I do? What are you thinking -- that I could use those lemons, and some olive, and some raisins, and some olive oil, to cook my own chicken?
No. That's never going to happen. Come on. Be serious.
IV.
For my boyfriend's birthday, I took him to Mockingbird Bistro. I had the braised short ribs. My plate looked just like this. I'll let you imagine how that tasted. (Hint: It tasted completely freaking awesome.)
I felt uncomfortable in the restaurant, however, because as we were finishing our meal, it quickly filled up with the kind of rich people who believe that it's tacky to care about one's clothing. Either that or they just had really bad taste. I can never tell for sure. But, either way, I couldn't stop staring at them. I stared at them and thought that they must have thought I was a tacky poor person, because I'd worn a pretty dress. I was torn between being ashamed of my obvious poor upbringing and very relieved that I'd grown up poor enough to wear pretty clothing in public. I stared at their ugly, old dresses and wondered where on Earth they'd bought them. It totally boggled my mind. I'm not kidding.
But then we left, and the short ribs eclipsed all my thoughts. And they stay in my mind now, and in my heart. (Not just in my arteries, you know.)
The Lucky Shopping Day
The other day I had the day off, because my job is awesome enough to give us random prizes each month, and I won the prize and I chose a day off from amongst the prizes. So I was taking that day off the other day, and, of course, that meant I had to go to my favorite thrift store for several hours.
Sometimes, when I shop for clothes, I notice there seems to be a certain color motif happening in my selections. That day, at the thrift store, I was working a Calvin Klein-esque neutral pallette. I found a million, billion skirts, pants, and shorts in beautiful taupes, muted browns, and creamy stones.
Then, magically, every single thing I tried on fit perfectly. It was only a matter, then, of picking my very favorite skirts, shorts, and pants. So I did.
Then, I found these shoes, in my size, in almost perfectly new condition, for five dollars and forty-five cents.
Then, to top it all off, I decided to scope out the men's jeans. I scanned the racks for my oldest son's size, and came away with one pair of Guess jeans and one pair of Lucky jeans, for ten dollars each. I'm not even kidding. And my son isn't a label whore, and neither am I (relatively, I'm not), but I couldn't pass that up. Who would have?
I left the thrift store and went to Starbucks to get a latte. While they were making my drink, someone accidentally made an extra shot, and they offered it to me for free. Yay, I said, as they poured it into my venti iced skinny hazelnut extra special double special drink thing. Yay!
Then I went to Payless shoes, just for the hell of it. Because my friend Brie always wears awesome shoes, and when I ask her where she got them, one out of ten times she'll say, "Payless," and I'll say, "Dude, you don't have to lie. If you want to keep your shoe sources a secret, just say so."
But she claims she's telling the truth. So I went in there to find out for sure, and I got two awesome, awesome pairs of shoes with the buy-one-get-one sale working for me. (One of them being the same pair I saw Brie wearing. Sorry, Brie! I bit your flavor. But it's okay because my feet are way bigger than hers, so they don't look the same on me.)
Then, because I was on a roll, I went to Big Lots and scored another beach umbrella, which we sorely needed, for eight freaking dollars.
Then, I went to Old Navy and, miraculously, they had more than one cute thing in sizes that fit me. (Granted, they were all different sizes, probably because they were each made in a separate third-world country. But still.)
And, I forgot to say, they had a brand new Benetton suit at the thrift store, and its price was $13. It wasn't in my size -- it was like size 2 or 0, but it was there, and it was $13, and I touched it and marveled at it and gasped in awe. Just wanted to tell y'all that. Just thought you should know.
And then I went home and felt happy.
The End
post script
I searched for preserved lemons online and found this woman's blog and immediately loved it. I don't like to cook, but this woman fills my head with ideas. I'm going to show her ideas to my boyfriend and let him cook the things she says.
Labels: gluttony, Houston, materialism, obessions
7:44 PM # (9) comments
