Check out this interview I did with Eric Ladau of Houston's NPR station, KUHF. (Warning: It has either bad words or bleeped-out bad words in it.)
I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Today was See an Endocrinologist Day.(This entry is also titled WARNING: TOO MUCH INFORMATION. Squeamish people, flee.)
Last time I was in the mood to yammer about my health and lady parts, I hinted to you guys that I have two periods per month, every month. (Twice the PMS = twice the fun!) And y'all gave me good advice, suggestions, doctors' names, and possible diagnoses.
Well, today I finally went to see the endocrinologist I'd been waiting to see. He said, right off the bat, that double periods are caused by four things: Menopause, too much prolactin (breastmilk-making hormone), jacked-up thyroid, or some other thing that I can't remember. Back when I last talked about this, I was thinking it was PolyCystic Ovary Syndrome. Then, I was thinking hypothyroid.
Right off the bat, while interviewing and examining me, he ruled out hypothyroid. He ruled out prolactin overage, too. Then, he said twice during the exam, "That's a sign of early menopause." So it's probably that or the other thing. They took blood, of course. I have to go home tonight and chart my temperature and bloodflow for a month, then go back and see what's up. The temperature charting will tell us if I have estrogen running all month, or estrogen plus progesterone. I can't remember which will mean what.
He asked if anyone in my family had early menopause. I explained, "Well, everybody in my family was too poor for regular check-ups, and there aren't many women in my family, and I'm the only one with a uterus, seeing as how the charity hospitals like to do hysterectomies, so I have no idea." He said he understood.
I'm still not convinced, though, because I never have hot flashes. I'm always freezing to death, instead.
Funny but gross:
When they told me to take off my clothes for the exam, I took off everything but my socks. When they examined me, the doctor had to pull off my sock and look at my foot. I asked why. He said, "I'm checking for hair on your toes." (Symptom of too much testosterone.) (No jokes about me being a man, please.)
I said, "Well, I'm glad I asked, then, because I do grow hair on my toes, but I shave them, so you can't see it."
He said, "I saw the stubble. That's a big part of my job - checking for stubble."
Ha.
I'm just glad I don't have hair on my knuckles. (Yet?) He checked for that, too, but I don't shave my knuckles.
Well, anyhow. There it is. We'll see what happens. Normally I don't get into talking about my health here, but for stuff like this, I think it's good for people on teh Internets to share as much helpful information as possible. Especially since, if it does turn out to be early menopause, that's something women my age usually don't suspect. However, my doctor told me today that one of his menopausal patients is sixteen years old. Aw.
Otherwise, I guess it'll be the other thing, the name of which I forgot.
I'm excited about doing my little temperature chart. My friend Julio facetiously suggested that I scan it and post it on the blog. He was kidding, but I might just do that. I sure as hell just might.
Labels: health
3:19 PM # (13) commentsMonday, September 25, 2006
Go see.My friend Rose and her friend Olive got invited to blog for Nerve.com. You have to register to see it, I think, but it's worth it, so go. The first entry is only a little bit Not Safe for Work.
Rose took the picture that I'll be using for my new author photo. She and I like to go to poetry readings together. Also, we like to eat bagels with lox. Also, we like to pretend we're getting ready to go out clubbing, but then sit around talking about monkeys and birds, instead.
I haven't met Olive yet, but I do believe she exists, and I like her words.
Go see their stuff. It's good.
Labels: photos
1:31 PM # (5) commentsSunday, September 24, 2006
Dear Fellow Flickr Users1. Please use tags responsibly. Tags are used to label subject matter and assist Flickr users in searches. When I want to type the word bunny into the search box, for instance, I expect to find thousands of pictures of cute bunnies. I do not expect to find:
a. Your dog named Bunny
b. Your girlfriend named Bunny
c. Your girlfriend named Rachel, who is wearing bunny ears
d. Your child wearing bunny ears
e. Your dog wearing bunny ears
f. Some random shit that has absolutely nothing to do with rabbits
Same for Houston. Don't tag stuff "Houston" if it is not recognizably in Houston. That day you went to visit your cousins at your grandma's house, which just happened to be in Houston? That day does not need to be commemorated with hundreds of Flickr pictures of your cousins at the dining table, ALL TAGGED "HOUSTON."
Okay? Can you grasp the concept? Okay, thanks.
2. If you want your Flickr pictures to remain private, why not make them accessible to your friends and family only? You might have noticed that Flickr provides that option.
If you don't want to make your pictures private, though, then don't freak out when strangers view your pictures and comment on them. Don't write gaspy blog entries about how creepy it is that strangers wanted to view pictures of your precious child wearing bunny ears, and how some of them had the nerve to comment such vulgarities as "Cute kid."
Unless, that is, you're one of those people who writes public blog entries and then totally freaks out when strangers read and comment on them. You know - one of those people who answers a stranger's comment with, "Uh, hello. Welcome, I guess. May I ask how you found my blog?" (Answer: "It's on the Internet, stupid.") One of those people who follows up that comment with a blog entry that says, "I didn't realize, when I started this little journal of my personal observations, just how many people in the world have nothing better to do than to seek it out. So I am going on hiatus - possibly a permanent one - and, in the meantime, if anyone knows of a job where I won't be punished for writing about my boss's physical shortcomings in a public forum, then please, please email me."
If you are one of those people, then don't worry about my Flickr advice, because you don't understand the Internet to begin with, and a Darwinian virus will probably remove you from my path sooner or later.
Labels: pop culture, venting
9:46 PM # (12) commentsWednesday, September 20, 2006
The status is static, General.Every time people ask me, "So what's going on with you?" my answer is, "Nothing." Because there is nothing to speak of. Look:
I like my house very much but don't get to spend enough time in it (just like everyone else in Suburban America).
I'm either writing or revising words, but have no new publications or readings to report.
The kids haven't flunked out of school yet. Josh is doing okay. Rory is doing okay. Dallas is learning to play a musical instrument. Some parents don't like the sound of children playing musical instruments. I like it, though. I make Dallas sit on my bed and serenade me with tuba solos while I clip coupons or pay bills. He can play a D, an F, and an E Sharp. He should be able to play a C, but the valve on his home-use tuba is rusted stiff. So he practices his three notes, over and over. Then I say, "Play a song now," and he goes into Radiohead-esque scales of his own devising. Sometimes I hum along. It's nice.
Oh, wait - something did happen. Little girls invaded my house.
Last night, after cleaning up the dinner dishes and yelling at the kids one last time for breaking the laundry-room door, I was getting ready to go to the grocery store for some desperately needed lunch supplies, when the doorbell rang.
It was two little girls. They were sisters. Before I knew what was happening, they invited themselves into my house. "You have a beautiful house," one said dutifully as she ushered herself in. She was Paris, I knew. (Though that's not her real name, of course.) I had a vague notion that my youngest son had arranged a play date with Paris that evening, and assumed her mother had simply sent the sister along, as well. I asked the sister for her name. She said it was Nicole, then politely asked for my name. I said it was "Miss Zuh-pay-duh." I rolled with their sudden appearance, figuring it was a suburban thing. The sisters frolicked with my sons and our video game systems for a while. I pretended to work on my writing and eavesdropped with great interest.
Dallas, eleven-soon-to-be-twelve and normally so quiet around adults and other boys, seems to enjoy talking to girls. Last year, he had three girls who would call our house and jabber at him for hours on end while he said, "Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah, I know, he's stupid."
Last night, he ushered the older girl into the office and showed her games he thought she would like. She wanted to talk. The others joined them as Dallas launched into a comedy routine, mimicking people at school and ad-libbing sardonic scenarios. The girls laughed and laughed. "I don't even know what I'm saying," Dallas said. "I'm just making it up."
Eventually, the talk turned to someone at school whose dad wore a particular kind of turban. One of the girls described it as "weird!" I called out to them, "My dad wears a turban like that, y'all." There was silence, then someone muttered, "Sorry."
I said, "No, just kidding. I just said that so y'all would think about stuff before you say it."
Silence again, but I could hear the eye-rolls under it.
"Right now, you guys," I continued, "That kid is at his house with his friends, talking about you guys. He's saying, 'Their dads don't even wear turbans! Weird!'"
More eye rolls. I went back to my own business.
A quarter til eight, I started thinking it might be time to hustle the little girls out of the house. I stood up to do so and the doorbell rang. It was the little girls' mom, who I've met once. She wasn't happy.
"Are Paris and Nicole here?" she asked. I said they were. She said, "They are so grounded!" I said, "I'm sorry."
It turned out that Paris had promised to be home before dark, and it was now after dark. Nicole hadn't even asked permission to visit us - she'd just followed Paris, and her parents had assumed she was in her room the whole time. Their mother hadn't even been sure which house we lived it, and had gone door to door, searching. "I told you it was the one with the silver car!" Paris whined.
"Can I come over again tomorrow?" Paris asked me. I saw that she had taken off her shoes and they weren't yet back on.
"Uh..." I said. I really wanted to go to the grocery store some evening soon.
"You are grounded!" their mother reminded them.
"Aw!" said Paris. As quickly as they'd appeared, the girls disappeared.
"Let's hurry and go to the grocery store," I told Rory.
On the way, his nine-year-old self said, "At least we got to have fun for a little while. I hope they come over tomorrow. We should invite more people over. Can we have a party?"
"Uh..." I said.
I really wanted to play World of Warcraft some evening this week. But maybe little kids will take over my house and I'll never play again. Maybe they'll bring over skateboards and puppies and kegs and DJs. I'm kind of scared. Then again, maybe I can teach them to be kind to others and to write villanelles.
Maybe I can build a little kid army and take over the world.
Just kidding.
Okay, I'm grounded. Gotta go.
Labels: parenting
9:17 AM # (15) commentsThursday, September 14, 2006
I am Susannah Sugarbaker.I just mean that lately I'm so fat and old and past the glory days when I won prizes for throwing an on-fire baton into the air, on stage at the Miss Peach Cobbler pageant.
And yet I still get as dramatic and hysterical as a young, pretty girl is given the right to be. Like this morning, I wanted to wear a new dress, but then I put it on and saw that it showed cleavage, like half the tops in my closet do because, hello, you can't be my size and not show cleavage in any normally v-necked item. But last time I wore a dress that showed cleavage, one of my (older, female) coworkers said my dress was so pretty, all I needed was a scarf to cover my cleavage.
Oh, my word. Breasts on display. We mustn't tempt the men, now, no, no, no.
And I'm being hypocritical now, because in the past I've written ugly words about women who come to work dressed sexily, wondering what they're trying to pull. And, yet, at the same time, I feel unfaired-upon, as if I should be allowed to go ahead and show my boob overspillage, seeing as how I would never use it to get promoted, anyway.
But still. First I put on the new dress, then I became angry at the thought of not being free to wear my new dress. Then I put on a new blouse and found that it showed cleavage, too. Same with the blouse after that, even though I wear that one to work all the time. After that, we got into Needs Ironing territory. Then I said, "Screw this," and put the new dress on again. Then, right before it was time for me to leave without being late, I changed into an old dress that was completely cleavage-free. Annoyed but inoffensive, deprived but safe, I went to work whistling a merry, merry tune.
(Never mind that, no matter how early I leave the house, I can't get to work earlier than 8 AM. If I leave thirty minutes early in the hopes of having time to buy a lox bagel for breakfast, you can count on some stupid bastard having a wreck on the freeway right in front of me, undoubtedly as a result of two stupid people talking on their cells and not paying attention.)
So then I get to work and proceed to have quiet panic attacks about any number of non-work-related things, including the way I look and the goals I'm not acheiving and, yes, of course, how fat I've gotten.
And only Susannah Sugarbaker is so fat, yet worries so much about how she looks, and wears so much eye makeup in order to attempt to strike a balance. And I wish I wasn't that way, except when I go home to Major Dad, who is very nice to me and helps me to stop worrying.
Except that I'm blonde now. Did I saw that? My hair has become short and blonde. So I don't exactly look like Delta Burke, after all. Also, if I were her, I wouldn't put my name on such a cheap lingerie line. But sometimes I feel like her, when I put dark eyeliner on my big, old body in the morning.
It's almost Halloween.
What are you going to be? I might be Red Riding Hood, if I'm anything at all. I might stay home that weekend and be myself so I don't have to worry about cajoling any babysitters. Either way, though, I'll stand in my doorway and pass out candy on Halloween night. I'm excited about that. I haven't been able to do that in years.
I want to visit France.
I want to go someplace where the people care about food. It would be a nice break from a place where you have to drive 20 miles to get a lox bagel. Unless...
Fellow Houstonians, most of y'all have guessed which suburb I moved to. Tell me, if you know and if you please, where I can get a bagel with lox, out here where I'm at.
Labels: vanity
10:38 AM # (13) commentsWednesday, September 13, 2006
Hell no.Jeffrey should have been kicked off of Project Runway when he made that shit sack of a dress for Angela's mom.
Jeffrey should not have won for his Hot Topic skull shirt and the tapered leather pants that made him look like a potato on stilts.
Jeffrey should not have won for the yellow plaid dress that he tore straight out of one of the library's magazines from the eighties.
Jeffrey should have been kicked off tonight for the polka-dot mess he made. It looked like a Madonna Halloween costume. It looked like the clearance bin from Rainbow, or the Everything Is $7 store.
If Jeffrey wins this season, I swear to God I will never watch Project Runway again, because, more than ever, this season is just a cringe-worthy, staged drama fest.
If Jeffrey wins this season, all you will have to do to win next season is show up looking stupid and acting like a complete dick.
Labels: pop culture
10:10 PM # (11) commentsMonday, September 11, 2006
Nothing GlamorousWent home sick at noon today. Sick again, sick again. I think it has something to do with the fact that I won't stop freaking bleeding.
Sorry. I usually try to think up a non-cliched euphemism for the bleeding, so as not to gross out the mens in the audience, but screw it. I'm too drained and anemic to come up with one today. And dizzy and nauseated. Y'all know women bleed, right? Y'all can handle that, I'm sure.
It's a good thing I made an appointment with a specialist two months ago. My appointment is two weeks from now. I can't wait for the doctor to tell me what's wrong and give me pills to fix it. (Honestly, I'm not really that optimistic. But I'm pretending to be, in case optimism makes it happen. Like voodoo.)
I've been missing a lot of work lately, but there's nothing I can do about it. All I can do is go home and rest. And eat little bits of iron-rich food.
Meta
Meanwhile, you may notice two changes over there to the right. One, the 2005 entries are missing. That's because I'm archiving them - neatening the best and chucking the rest - and it's taking forEVer.
Also, my next book is no longer coming out in Spring 07. It is now slated for Fall 07. I consider it evidence of my growth as a writer that I'm not freaking out about that fact. I'm totally okay with it. (Because I already got paid.)
Mommy, wow. I'm a big kid now.
Today I talked to a coworker about rigging electric hedge clippers to reach far away hedges.
Dude.
What's next? Tax shelters?
Oh, wait. Too late. I already think about those 24/7. 6:55 PM # (5) comments
Monday, September 04, 2006
Lost WeekendRight now I'm avoiding doing some work that I should do. (Revising a book proposal.)
We ran around like maniacs this weekend but did nothing we were supposed to do. I was supposed to:
1. Inaugurate the weed-eater.
2. Seal the grout.
3. Get my car inspected.
4. Revise a book proposal.
Instead, we:
1. Bought a bed.
2. Went to a mall we never went to before.
3. Spent a night in Cathy's guest room.
4. Did that thing we so often do where we stand in line at a Midtown club and wait for the high privilege of being let into said club by God, oops I mean the door guy.
Those are in reverse order. Also, I'm very tired of the club thing. This time the girls and my bf got in, but not the jillions of men with us. (Too many men can't get in. One pair of tennis shoes can't get in. Too many non-white people can't get in. Too few implants can't get in.) So we couldn't stay. Which was annoying because, for once, the music was good.
I don't think I'm too old for clubs. I think I'm too annoyed by the Midtown bullshit. Fuck you, Midtown. You aren't anything. I wish my friends wouldn't want to keep going there all the time. I wish we could go back to Main Street, or the Montrose, or even to somewhere new.
I'll probably get up in a second and leave town early. Sometimes I like to do things early because I'm an impatient person. I'd rather drive to Austin two hours early and sit in my car there reading a book, than run around like a chicken with no head until the last minute, then drive like a maniac, then get there just in time to spin around and drive back again.
I feel guilty when I don't do the things I was supposed to do. Hence, I end up feeling guilty each weekend that I don't have my kids. (Kids are good for making you feel responsible and able, I notice.)
Also, it sucks when I put aside my duties in order to have a little fun, and the fun we choose ends up being disappointing and/or exhausting, instead. I need to make different fun choices, apparently.
Really, I feel like I need a vacation. I've spent all my free days moving, unpacking, dealing with the new schools, and doing extra work. And standing in line in Midtown for no reason.
I'm tired. I want to rest. 11:20 AM # (6) comments
Friday, September 01, 2006
Sad MonkeysI'm going to tell you what Rose and I talked about more than a week ago. Look:
Monkeys want cell phones but get rebuffed.
This is a sad story. Monkeys live at the zoo. They see humans using cell phones. The monkeys, then, want cell phones of their own.
Give the monkeys cell phones!
But no. Instead, the keepers "train" the monkeys not to want cell phones anymore. They do this by giving them old, broken cell phones coated with "sticky substances" that the monkeys "don't like." The monkeys learn to stay the hell away from the phones after that.
Man, that's cold-blooded. Give the monkeys cell phones. They want them. They don't need them, but neither does anyone else, right? The keepers say the monkeys are supposed to live "naturally," but how natural is it to live in a zoo?
I say, give the monkeys cell phones and pre-program each phone with the numbers and photographs of the other monkeys. Give them ring tones. Let them upgrade to Razors (and Rzzrs and Crzzrs) for rebatable bananas.
It's not like you're giving them guns, or heroin, or carb-laden treats.
Let the monkeys have cell phones. They want them.
Paid for by the woman whose kids have sticky cell phones and broken Game Boys all over their cages.
Labels: parenting, psychobabble
8:14 AM # (2) comments
