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.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Acheiving Inner (Intestinal) HarmonyWhy does Coke go so well with greasy food? Is it because that's the liquid people use to remove car battery corrosion?
There's nothing more gastrointestinally awesome, to me, than pizza followed by a can of diet cola. (Or, as some of you so charmingly call it, brown pop.)
I thought, this morning, that I could eat cheesy eggs and two smoked sausages for breakfast. Instead, I ate the cheese off my eggs and then one sausage, and then gave my other sausage to a coworker.
The sausage was like a fiery dragon within me. Diet Coke, I realized, would be my knight in shining armor.
This sounds like one of those clever embedded blog ads, I know. But it isn't. You know it isn't, because I didn't link to Coke's web site, and because I called it battery corrosion cleaner.
I will never put secret ads on this blog, you guys. At the same time, however, I see no reason to hide my reoccurring Diet Coke addiction. I used to sneer at people who ordered it in restaurants. But now, I understand. Its chemical taste and separate chemical aftertaste get to you, after a while. You start to appreciate it like fine red wine.
Houston's Big News Today
"The big story this morning... The weather!" says the morning radio newsperson. Yes, the weather. Because it's been 76 or 82 degrees all month, and today we're getting a "blue Norther" and they promise the temperature will drop to 40 by afternoon rush hour.
Oh my god! Forty degrees! Here is the conversation taking place all around me.
"Did you bring your coat today?"
"Yes!"
"I didn't."
"What? Oh my god! It's gonna be 40 degrees! It's already 37 in San Antonio!"
"I know. [Sighs.] But I'm leaving at lunch today for a doctor's appointment, then going home. I think I can make it. If not, I can always stop at Target and buy a coat, I guess. If I get there in time..."
"Godspeed to you, then. Godspeed!"
Because that's how dramatic we like to get about cold weather around here. Especially now that it's been so (slightly) unseasonably warm for so long.
Gift Tree!
They finally put up the gift tree in our lobby, a week or two after the xmas decorations. I was kind of scared they weren't going to do it this year, after all, but they came through. I saw it yesterday on my way home, then - don't think I'm smurfy, but - woke up this morning excited to come back to work. I showed up early so I could have time to read every single effing tag.
You know how some people get off on reading Post Secret or Craiglist's Missed Connections? Well, that's how I get off on reading the gift tree wish tags.
I took a few pictures of them, but I'm not sure it's right to post them on my Flickr, since they used the kids' full names. If I have time to blot out their last names, I'll post them later tonight.
This year I noticed they shifted from elementary-age kids to Kinder and Pre-K, ages 6 and below. They put the kids' names, ages, teachers' names, and 3 gift choices each. For the second year in a row, it was obvious that they asked the kids to keep the costs low. There were no requests for I-Pods or bikes. Also, this year it seemed like someone got after the kids to ask for more "educational" things. Almost everyone asked for books and/or magnets and/or science lab stuff. I mean, maybe books are just the hot item this year, all of a sudden, but I doubt it. I'm not dumb.
Most of the kids' tags were filled out by adults, obviously. Some, as usual, were in Spanish. One was in Spanglish - someone wanted "una muneca de beybey con mamila." Mamila was the one word I didn't know. Is that a bottle or a pacifier?
Some of them had "gift certificate" (or variations on that spelling) for the first choice. Some only had two choices filled. The most popular requests this year were dolls (evenly divided between Barbies and Bratz), Legos, and lucha libre items. One girl wanted a "Hello Kitty mouse for computer." You go, little girl.
My favorite request was from a six-year-old boy who apparently wrote the tag himself. This is what he wanted:
1. SWORD
2. POWER RANJR (Power Ranger.)
3. LEGOS
I like a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to ask for it in all caps. And I like that the teacher had to edit his tag, just in case the adults working in my building couldn't make the intuitive leap from Ranjr to Ranger. (Good thinking, lady.)
Mostly, though, I just like little kids and the crazy stuff they come up with. Earlier this month they had coloring contest entries posted in the lobby. Now we have the gift tree. I swear, if they could come up with a new child-created display every other week (like essays or project boards), then I would look forward to coming to work every single day. 9:11 AM # (4) comments
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Things I Want to Somehow Do This Weekend1. Have a romantic evening with my boyfriend Friday night. It's already planned - we're going to a sexy restaurant and then a movie.
2. Buy a new (used) car. A mini-van, actually. I wanted a hybrid SUV, but the ones I can afford aren't getting good reviews. I need a whole mini-van, anyway, though, because my children are huge and they can't sit in the back seat of my Altima anymore without punching each other and fogging up the windows. Also, I suspect that I should get rid of the Altima before it becomes completely worthless or attains a problem that'll cost a bunch to fix.
3. Go to a party at the house of one of UH's most awesome professors.
4. Start my next book, as soon as I decide which of two topics it'll be on.
5. Put up Christmas lights, maybe buy a Christmas tree.
6. Or, at the very least, remove the rotting pumpkins from my yard. And edge the lawn. And weed/feed the lawn. And rake. And trim the hedges.
7. Spend some time alone. I'm not an introvert, but I do need some alone time. I haven't been alone, really, for several weeks now. If I had a day alone, here's the sub-list of what I'd do:
a. Sleep.
b. Read.
c. Play World of Warcraft, but only for a little while.
d. Lie on the couch and watch TV.
e. Absolutely nothing.
I never get to do those things, dammit. Never for long enough.
8. Get a pedicure.
That's all I want to do. Eight things. And I already know that there's no way in hell I'll do numbers 4, 5, 7, or 8.
Also, I have to drive to Austin on Sunday to pick up my kids from their dad's house. That never, ever gets old or stops being fun, not even when their dad moves 30 miles farther from my house than he lived before. (I'm being sarcastic. God, I hate driving to and from Austin twice a month.)
Okay, that's all. I know this entry was a lame-ass, cop-out of a things-to-do list, but I hardly ever write those here, so I hope y'all don't mind just this once. Or, we could call it a glimpse into the real life of a single, working mom and author.
Happy holidays! I hope y'all have productive yet incredibly enjoyable weekends.
Labels: domestic
4:14 PM # (5) commentsHateful People, Part MCCXVI
I hate it when a pretty young stranger walks by, and another woman makes a disparaging remark about the pretty young stranger, such as, "I bet they only hired her because of her slutty little outfits."
What the other woman is really saying to me in that situation is, "I hate that I'm not young and pretty. And I hate that men treat pretty women better, but I don't have the guts to say that to any men I know."
I hate it when someone rich and beautiful says, "I'm unhappy because my husband's been beating me," and then one of her peers or supposed friends says, "Quit complaining. I'd be happy to have your life."
What that "friend" is really saying in that situation, to me, is, "I spend all my free time thinking about how miserable I am, and I take no responsibility for the way my life has turned out."
I hate it when assholes get all the attention, even though the people calling them assholes are the ones giving the attention.
I hate it when an asshole's getting attention, and then stupid people flock to support that asshole because they want to be on the side of the asshole, not on the side that the asshole makes fun of.
I hate people who lie to make themselves look like something they aren't. And then lie to themselves. And then make up lies to cover their lies. By the time it's all said and done, isn't it less worrisome and time consuming simply to become the thing you lied about being in the first place?
I hate it when all the hateful, miserable people in the world inspire me to become hateful and miserable in turn.
I hate being a hateful person.
Labels: venting
3:40 PM # (2) commentsTuesday, November 28, 2006
Stupid PeopleTwice this morning, people almost hit my car with their cars. It made me mad, but mostly it made me scared. There is no guarantee, no matter how carefully you drive, that you can drive through your city without a careless asshole wrecking into your car.
I was determined not to let that fear and anger set the tone for my day, though.
But then, when I tried to enter the parking garage, two stupid women were standing in the entrance. One was giving the other directions. "Why not," I thought, "direct her not to stand in the driveway, right in front of the scanner that scans the parking pass of every single person who needs to park in this garage?" What kind of people, I wondered, are that inconsiderate/selfish/oblivious?
But, again - I don't have to let all the stupid, inconsiderate, dangerous people in Houston affect my day, do I?
No. I'm happy as effing hell. I'm going to have a great effing day.
The shopping hype continues.
This morning on the radio they said that, over Black Friday weekend, men outshopped women by an average of $100 each. "Hurry up, ladies! Catch up!"
How clever, to make the shopping into a battle of the sexes. How very retro.
So I did a U-turn and headed to the nearest mall. I'd be damned if some man was going to out-shop me. Don't worry, NASDAQ! I'll save you!
No, just kidding. The mall wasn't open yet.
Show the Wal-Mart love.
Meanwhile, I predict that Wal-Mart is going to become the next K-Mart. Their sales did not climb over Black Friday weekend - they fell, while everyone else's climbed. For the second year in a row, I believe.
You know why? Because people don't want Christmas gifts from Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart's okay for every day things, like socks and dish scrubbers, but giving someone a gift from Wal-Mart says, "I don't really care about you, and therefore I bought you the cheapest thing possible, and I don't care if you know about it, either, as evidenced by the tag that says FADED GLORY."
In fact, there are only five gifts in the world that indicate apathy more effectively than a gift from Wal-Mart. Here they are, in order from best to worst:
1. A boxed set of Jovan White Musk toiletries from the drugstore, on which the fluourescent orange $5 price tag has been scribbled over with a black Sharpie.
2. A nearly see-through white t-shirt on which the name of someone else's city has been screenprinted off center.
3. Christmas socks and Christmas earrings, purchased from the Target clearance rack the day after Christmas.
4. A pair of lottery scratch tickets on which every square has a thin scratch so as to assure beforehand that it wasn't a winning ticket.
5. A small stuffed animal of unidentifiable species and a rosebud made of rolled-up nylon panties from the convenience store a block from your house.
What those gifts can also say is, "Neither I nor my employers managed to benefit from Iraq war money in any way."
Or, best-case scenario: "I'm old and I don't get out of the house unless someone else drives me. Be glad I bought you anything at all, you ungrateful little brat of a grandchild whose name I can't remember."
So, anyway, back to my theory. My theory is that, after a good, long eight-year period of Republican war, it's time to shun Wal-Mart. Tell your kids to taunt each other by saying, "Your mom shops at Wal-Mart!"
It's time, you guys. The void left by K-Mart has been open too long.
Labels: venting
8:33 AM # (4) commentsMonday, November 27, 2006
Manufactured Drama, Part 1I never do the Black Friday thing because I hate crowds, especially crowds of grasping, mannerless conformists. Not that I'm saying everyone who shopped Friday was that. But I think you know what I mean.
However, last week I got an ad in the mail informing me that Kohl's would have for sale the exact video game and video game accessory that I was planning to buy for my children for xmas. Also, all their boots would be half off, and I've been wanting a pair of brown boots. So I reasoned that Kohl's probably wouldn't be too crowded on Black Friday, and I decided that I would go.
We didn't get to bed on Thanksgiving until around 2:30 AM. I like my family, and we have fun when we get together. Therefore, we all got together and drank and ate and made fun of each other until the wee hours. So I was in no condition to wake up in time to be at Kohl's at 5 AM. Instead, I woke up at 9:30.
I went to Kohl's alone. My boyfriend and my kids waited at home with sugar plums (or World of Warcraft quests) dancing in their heads. The Kohl's parking lot was disorganized. Inside, the first thing I saw was several displays of picked-over sweater. Signs everywhere advertised special sales for this two-hour period only. A single line stretched from the cash registers in front, all the way to the back of the store.
After searching fruitlessly for a while, I asked a Kohl's employee where the PS2 games were. He seemed to have a hard time understanding what I meant. I had the impression that he wasn't normally a floor worker. It looked like a lot of people hadn't shown up to work that day, and maybe they'd temporarily promoted this guy from stocking. However, he eventually indicated that the games were somewhere in the men's department.
Kohl's had (cleverly?) interspersed all the advertised electronics throughout the clothing departments in the hopes that, while searching for my video game, I'd be irresistably tempted by the socks and stepped-on sweaters all around. Instead, I was upset by the lack of video games. Either there weren't any Desired Game II's around, or else I was too stupid to find them.
I started looking at the purchases of the people in line, to see if any of them had Desired Game II. No. No one had that, and no one had the portable DVD's advertised, either. Instead, I saw people standing in an multiple-hour-long line to buy: a Barbie dreamhouse. A palette-load of no-name video games. A thing that looked like Desired Game II but that was, to the trained PS2 habit enabler's eye, definitely not Desired Game II. Sponge Bob slippers. I'm assuming that stuff was marked 40% off.
The line reached its midway point near the shoe department. With one glance, I saw that there wasn't a single pair of brown boots in Kohl's worth waiting in line for an hour to buy. Not even for half the price.
I left. Then, instead of going to Hobby Lobby to buy a marked-down fake xmas tree, I drove back home. That was enough Black Friday for me.
In my car, I listened to a local AM station headquartered in one of Houston's poorer neighborhoods. It was playing a talk show about managing money. The hosts were talking to a local car dealership owner, but the conversation had tangented into imploring listeners not to believe the Black Friday hype. "I see people running around buying gifts they can't afford for people they don't like," said one of the hosts. "I saw a woman driving around with a car full of purchases, and she didn't even have working AC. She had to roll her windows down," said the dealership owner. (It's Houston. Yes, we need our cars to have working AC in November.)
Anyhow. Listening to them made me sad, because I knew they were telling the truth. And I knew half their listeners weren't listening, and would be spending money they didn't have, anyway. And for what? Long lines of gifts you settled for, at 40% off, at 20% interest. Gifts nobody will remember.
Manufactured Drama, Part 2
This morning on the radio - both on NPR and on the local conservative AM station that gives traffic and weather reports every ten minutes - the talkers were talking about Cyber Monday.
See, last Friday was Black Friday, and today is Cyber Monday. That means, allegedly, that shoppers who went unsated at brick-and-mortar stores over the weekend are supposed to shop online in record numbers today.
"Don't be surprised if the Internet is sluggish today," warned one guy.
I call hype-mongering. Why would people who shop online pick today to do their shopping? I've been browsing gift ideas for weeks now. Why should I believe people who believe that the whole Internet would somehow run slower today, even if people were shopping more?
And yet, why do I know in my heart that there were people listening to those stories and thinking, "Oh my God, I'd better hurry up and buy stuff online"?
To NPR's credit, they clarified that today is dubbed Cyber Monday because it was the biggest online shopping day of last year. But they said most people just browsed and didn't buy.
This hype is killing my buzz.
The more people hype stuff, the less I want to do it. Seriously, I don't even want a Christmas tree this year. I mentioned that last entry, but since then I've been dwelling on it, crystallizing the idea in my mind.
I don't want to buy a fake tree. Fake greenery is not the kind of thing I buy, no matter the season.
I wanted to buy a real tree, even though it would've been a pain. But now, I don't even want to do that. What's the point? What does it mean? Lately, nothing.
Last night we watched Father of the Bride on cable, and I thought of how dumb American weddings are. Every time I see someone plan a wedding, I think about how many of our customs have no meaning or, worse, have offensively arcane ones. That's not a new thought, I know.
But now I'm starting to feel the same way about Christmas. What's the point of having a dead tree in my house? We're so far removed from the German pagans who invented that tradition. Why should we put fake reindeer and snowmen in our yard, when we're driving our cars with the AC full blast?
When I was a child, Christmas meant two things to me. One: Christmas pageantry. I would sing and dance and dress up for audiences, and their applause would mean the world to me. Two: Free stuff. We were poor, so free stuff was a major incentive in our lives, and December meant more free stuff than usual, if we played our cards right.
Thank God we don't have to live like that anymore. Also, I no longer go to church just so I can sing.
Obviously, if I want to celebrate Christmas, I need to find out what it means to me and my family, and concentrate on fulfilling those meanings. Last year I asked the kids what their favorite part of the holiday was, and they told me it was opening their stockings in the morning. Good, I said, because I like filling their stockings at night. In fact, the part I like best now is giving gifts to my friends and family, because I love them and I don't get a chance to show that often enough. The other thing I like is hanging out with my family. We'll do that, then. Good for us.
If we had more money, I'd buy presents for poor kids every year. It would make me happy to give kids the same crazy, bittersweet, materialistic pleasure that I used to hope for every year.
Is there anything about the winter holidays that has special, hype-free meaning for you? Tell me, please. Share with the class. 9:00 AM # (9) comments
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thanks!This year I am particular thankful for the following:
1. I'm not poor.
2. I was born in America and not, say, Afghanistan.
3. I was born in reasonable good health, with decent DNA.
4. The same is true of my kids.
5. I was able to buy a house this year.
6. I now have good credit.
7. I have a nice boyfriend.
8. I have good friends.
9. My family loves me and they make me laugh, too.
10. I have a decent job.
11. I don't have any health problems that can't be fixed.
Yay. Life is good. I give thanks.
Christmas
I'm thinking I'm not going to buy a tree this year, after all, since my kids spend xmas with their dad in even-numbered years. So I'll save the money and spend it on things that last longer.
I thought I wanted to decorate my house like crazy this year, but now I see that it's pretty much all I can do to keep the lawn looking decent for my neighbors. You know? Mowing, edging, raking - I think that's all the decoration I can do. Not even to mention that I haven't knocked down the wasp house yet.
I don't want to staple a bunch of lights up. I especially don't want to take them down again.
Maybe I can buy just a tiny, tiny string of lights, and staple them to the wasp house.
Ha.
Houston Zoo
We went to the zoo today. I had to force everyone - my kids and my boyfriend say they don't like the zoo. What's wrong with them, I wonder. How can anyone say that?
"It's the same animals every time," says my middle son Dallas.
"I know. We're going to check on them and see how they're doing," I say.
I forced them to go and they liked it, after all. Just like always.
My favorite part this time was the octopus molesting the toy boat. Check it out.
If I ever get rich, I'm totally going to buy a membership to the zoo. 6:00 PM # (2) comments
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Eff you, Metro bus dreams.If I found myself stranded downtown without a car, I would call a friend. Failing that, I would call a cab. I have the number for Yellowcab right here on my phone.
Why, then, do I dream on a twice-monthly basis that I'm stranded in downtown (or, worse, at high school) and I have to take the bus? And I don't know which bus to take, or where my stop is? And the bus is full of mean people?
I'm not taking the damned Metro bus, because I don't have to.
I didn't work my butt off to become middle class so that I could get stranded downtown and take the Metro bus.
Eff you, Metro bus dreams. Go to hell, Metro bus nightmares.
Just kidding. I'm not really that angry about the dreams. But I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be poor and then work your way out of it. Apparently, it means you never stop having nightmares about being poor.
Eff you, too, annoying conservative radio show hosts.
Also, lately I've been hearing a lot of ignorant right-wing people in Houston say things about poor people "bettering" themselves. Mostly it's been in response to the proposed minimum wage increase. They say that min-wage jobs are only entry level for "responsible" people and that poor people who really want to will "educate themselves" or "better themselves" and then quickly move up from minimum wage.
Let me make this clear, first of all: I am a political moderate. Also: I can see both sides of the min-wage debate.
However: If you didn't grow up poor, then you don't know how easy or how difficult it is to work your way out of the lower class. And, therefore, you should shut your mouth. Shut up about it. Seriously - you don't know what the hell you're talking about, so just stop talking.
Especially if you're spouting your ignorance on the only radio station in the city that gives traffic reports every ten minutes, and double especially if you have a whiny, poor-man's-Limbaugh voice.
I shouldn't be punished for wanting to avoid slow traffic, dammit. I've already been through enough.
One Last Thing
Do you ever drink something hot while sitting, and then feel little spears of sweat behind your knees?
That just happened to me. But I had to drink this Cup O Soup. It was keeping me alive. 2:45 PM # (3) comments
Monday, November 20, 2006
PhasesMaybe this is only a societally conditioned woman thing, but: You know how you'll go through little phases throughout the year? Like, there's the gathering phase, where you feel like buying a bunch of stuff, and then the nesting phase, in which you feel like fixing up your house, and then the inspiration phase, when you feel like tearing a bunch of pictures out of magazines or right-clicking a bunch of images online? And then I guess there's a creative phase, when you make stuff, and a sort of purging phase, when you give stuff to the Goodwill or sell it on eBay. And maybe there's an organizing phase, too.
Right now I'm not in any of those phases. And it feels pretty good. Except that I think this is just the eye before the storm that is Christmas, and I'll have to go through several phases, in rapid succession, very soon.
Christmas is special. It has its own phases.
The Generosity Phase - you want to buy tons of stuff for everyone you've ever liked or appreciated.
The Socially Conscious Miser Phase - you want to stop buying things and only give people gifts of your time or whatever.
The PTSD Phase - you remember sad/mad/bad Christmasses past and cower on your couch in several minor panic attacks.
The Weather Phase - you live in a semi-tropical region and feel bittersweet that there's no snow. (Or else you have a snowball fight and wallow in nostalgia. Woo hoo for you.)
The Angst Phase - nothing you picked out for gifts is good enough.
The Greed Phase - you make big lists, mentally or on paper, of things you want, whether you give the lists to anyone or not. Sometimes you flip out and buy yourself a bunch of expensive luxuries, reasoning that no one's going to get you what you really want, anyway, so you might as well buy yourself a gift or three.
The Starch Phase - you want to eat a bunch of orange and brown foods.
The Decorating Phase - you want to put lights and garlands and crap all over your house.
The Over It Phase - you want to fly away to another country and come back in the middle of January.
It's very sunny and warm here lately, in Houston, so, like I said, I'm resting myself until Christmas draws nearer. If it were a little colder, I'd probably be panicking about gifts right about now.
Oh, and I don't get my kids for Christmas this year - their dad gets them. So, really, I kind of feel like I have nothing to be excited about. No... really, it just means a whole other set of phases to go through, some involving loneliness and alcohol, some involving exhilarating freedom and glee.
What are your phases? Which one are you in right now? Why? Or did I just make all this up?
Labels: Christmas, psychobabble
10:40 AM # (7) commentsSaturday, November 18, 2006
We found out what's wrong.And it's not anything I thought it was, or anything any of you thought. Not PCOS, not fibroids, not cancer, not pregnancy, not thyroid.
Here is what's wrong with me:
1. My pituitary gland produces too much prolactin.
2. I also have too much of the other male hormone. (DHEA? Forgot the name already.)
3. My insulin resistance is borderline.
4. I need more Vitamin D.
Those last two aren't what's causing the double periods. But he told me about them, anyway, just so I'd know.
Besides that, I'm completely healthy. Even my cholestorol is good.
He gave me little tiny pills to slow down the prolactin. He said that'll most likely bring the DHEA down, too. If not, though, they'll give me something extra for that.
I am ovulating, after all. Twice a month, I guess.
No wonder I'm always tired and bitchy, then. But still. I'm glad we went through all the tests. Hopefully the tiny pills will work. I should find out in the next four weeks if they do.
In the meantime, I'm going to buy a sun lamp.
Labels: health
4:57 PM # (8) commentsFriday, November 17, 2006
HmmIs it just my imagination, or does everyone Gen X and younger have panic attacks on a regular basis? I blame high fructose corn syrup.
Is it also just my imagination, or does everyone younger than Gen X (What are y'all - Gen Y?) have experience with cutting themselves? What's up with that? Nutrasweet, maybe?
What will the next generation's issue be? Besides being born with adult diabetes, I mean?
What will Splenda bring?
Seriously
I know this is going to sound weird and maybe a little bit disgusting, but I pretty much love 90% of my coworkers very much. I like to see them in the elevators and trade pleasant small talk with them on the way home. I empathize with them and wish them well.
Or maybe it's just PMS.
Seriously as Hell - Why I Hated The Unconsoled
It wasn't that it was told as a dream. It wasn't that I'm too dumb to follow it. It wasn't that everyone in it talked like the butler from Remains of the Day.
No.
It was that the narrator being an asshole was supposed to cover Ishiguro being self-deprecating, which in turn was supposed to cover the narrator(/author) feeling sorry for himself for lame-ass, petty reasons.
When your parents don't support your art, you're not supposed to write a big book about a bunch of people's parents not supporting their art. You're supposed to write a small book (or a series of them) eviscerating people just like your parents, and presenting fictionalized theories on how they came to be so fucked up. That is what cures you. (Because nothing you can write will make them change. You can only change yourself.)
When you want to complain about and simultaneously apologize to a lover or ex-lover, you don't write a big book containing three or four versions of her. No. You write several books containing those versions, and you make one of them a man so as to disguise your whininess better.
Don't be a baby, Kazuo! Exploit your personal slights the time-honored way.
Labels: health, pop culture
2:41 PM # (4) commentsWednesday, November 15, 2006
Recent Dream Themes1. (Instead of being sad that I have to live in my dad's house, or deciding to clean up my dad's house,) A bunch of irresponsible people have moved into my dad's house, and I have to decide whether I want to kick them out, or clean up their mess, or just party with them and then leave.
2. There's a big vegetable garden at/near my dad's house, and I'm about to harvest the monstrously huge mutant vegetables, with or without the help of my family, but constantly get waylaid.
3. I'm walking near my dad's house, noticing all the insane gentrification going on all around it, alongside abject decay. (That part's straight out of real life.) And then I arrive at a series of antiques stores run by liberal gentrifying white people. And they let me in to browse, because I look like them. But then, I can not resist plotting to steal from their stores.
4. I'm driving to or in a small Texas town near the coast. It's quaint, and yet contains an establishment filled with hipsters my age, including one or another of the hipster white boys I've loved in my real-life past. Nothing happens between me and these boys, but I don't care because I have money now, and I often have my kids with me, too. So I spend money, and being in those towns becomes a mini adventure.
5. Either I find a cool little house I want to rent, or else I discover that the small house I'm renting is secretly way bigger and cooler than I first realized. But then, in either case, I realize that I can only rent this place with my ex-husband, because he's the co-signer on the lease. I feel torn between staying in the house, ignoring my ex, and leaving him for a smaller, less-nice house where I won't have to put up with him anymore. Usually I'm about to leave when I wake up.
6. I have to do a show with the poor-kids musical theater troupe I used to perform in as a kid. Whereas the dreams used to involve me being unable to find a costume in my size, or not knowing the choreography or the words to the songs, now I just improvise a costume from my own clothes and plan to get on stage and improvise the song and dance, as well. And I can't wait to do it, but I always wake up, first.
All my dreams are about money or success, it seems. Very few dreams about love or whatever else.
Every night my boyfriend dreams someone's trying to kill him, or that he's trying to protect people he loves. We think it's because he has sleep apnea, and his mind must manufacture a reason for him to be struggling to breathe.
Sometimes my boyfriend dreams that I'm cheating on him, and it makes him sad. Sometimes I dream that he doesn't love me anymore, and it makes me very sad and angry at the same time. Once I woke up and kicked him, I was so upset. He said he was sorry and we went back to sleep - him so he could protect me from killers, and me so I could make enough money to make our best dreams come true.
Labels: dreams, my sex life
9:21 PM # (6) commentsTuesday, November 14, 2006
Disappointment, thy name is Benassi.Very quickly, let me tell you. Semi-recently, we went to see Benny Benassi at a club. I was the one who wanted to go most. You don't know who he is? Okay - you know that song with the Speak & Spell voiced chick going, "Push me, and then just touch me, 'til I can get my... satisfaction... satisfaction..."?
No? Okay, well, forget it, then. Just know that he's some techno guy who's living off the success of his one album from a zillion years ago. And I wasn't the only one who thought that was enough to pay $15 pre-show to see him. The very large club was jam-packed with fans.
First up was DJ Red, though. I never heard of him til that night, but he was good. Everyone was dancing and happy to be alive while DJ Red was spinning on the stage. It was me and my boyfriend and Mike and Richard there, and one of Mike's friends named Jim. Hardcore music enthusiasts, all. None of our other club-friends had been hardcore enough to brave that crowd.
Then one of Mike's other friends showed up - a boy they called Goofy Rick, or else Gimpy Rick. (Don't ask why; I never do.) I only see Goofy Rick once in a while, but I remember that he's always polite to me. And he's always, always goofy.
Round about midnight, Mr. Benny Benassi deigned to appear. Boy, his fans were glad. I was glad - hey, I didn't download his album illegally, or copy it from my friends. I bought that thing full price, and I loved it. But some of his fans there were more devoted than that. Some of them were wearing suits and argyle vests, as Mr. Benassi has been known to do.
Not Mr. Benassi himself, though. No. Hell no.
Muthafucka gets up on stage looking like he just rolled out the hotel bed. Hair all uncombed. Jeans and wrinkled t-shirt. Benny Benassi walked up looking like my Uncle Jose when he gets home from his job mowing lawns.
Which would have been one thing, if he'd spun anything good. But he didn't, so it was something else altogether. It was a waste of $15. ($25 at the door.) "Bring back DJ Red," a bunch of us were thinking. Matters weren't made better when local DJ Sean Carnahan took the stage. Apparently, Sean had helped arrange Mr. Benassi's visit. But, seriously, a lot of us had to wonder, who the hell wants to look at Sean Carnahan sitting up on the speaker next to Benny Benassi, smiling like a possum? Get off the stage, Sean.
The only thing to do, after that, was laugh at Goofy Rick. I swear, that guy was killing us. Everything he did involved humping or getting humped by everyone in the club. He humped Jim's friend Jody. Then he feverishly humped and necked with our friend Mike. He danced next to Richard and stroked his long, invisible member, until Richard told him to quit.
The best/worst thing, though, was when he walked up to the three bored/annoyed/frumpy girls who were standing on the rail, next to me. These three girls obviously weren't there because they liked techno music. They'd walked in with a single gay guy, but he'd removed his shirt and thrown himself into the sweaty throng a long time ago.
Goofy Rick got up behind the saddest, most annoyed girl and pretended to freak-dance against her. But without touching her, of course. And without her seeing him at all. But her friends saw.
Goofy Rick went away. The Sad Girl's friends lost no time, then, telling Sad Girl what he'd done. With pointing, pantomime, and eye-rolls, they explained it all. Maybe it was the beers I'd had, but it seemed to me that they then pantomimed a plan. They would dance, enticing Goofy Rick to fake-hump them in turn. Then, they'd turn around and tell him off. Maybe even kick him in the balls.
Sad Girl watched from the corner of her eye while her two friends danced. Her two friends watched Goofy Rick from the corners of their eyes while their dance increased in lasciviousness. But Goofy Rick didn't seem to notice. He was involved in a conversation with Richard by then - maybe a serious conversation about the maintenance of his incredible invisible manhood.
Sad Girl's two friends danced and danced, thrusting their hips back in Goofy Rick's direction. They threw their arms wantonly over their heads. Eventually, they no longer even tried to hide the fact that they wanted his attention. They stared at him over their shoulders, smiling and licking their lips.
But he was over it by then. He had other things to do. Before he left, he sneaked up behind my boyfriend and kissed his neck. Then, he fake-humped me once or twice from behind. And then, dear reader, he was gone. The end.
Sad Girl and Friends looked very disappointed. They were sad that they hadn't gotten the chance to give that horrible man a piece of their minds, I guess.
Maybe it was just the Blue Monkey shot I'd had that was making me think this, but suddenly, that whole episode was the funniest, most poignant thing I'd ever seen in my life. Clear as a memory, I could see Sad Girl riding home in her friends' car, dwelling on the fact that she had been the one Goofy Rick had chosen.
I couldn't stop giggling about it. But Benny Benassi never got any better, so way before Sad Girl and two AM, we went home.
Labels: Houston, pop culture, stories
9:49 PM # (4) commentsThursday, November 09, 2006
TodayThe pollution is making a shadow like smoke on my wall. It's kind of pretty, actually.
My boyfriend (Tad) got a new job somewhat near mine, so we'll be able to have lunch together again. I'm very excited about that. Sickeningly excited, some of my friends think. Oh, well. Don't be jealous of our love, haters. In fact - lick it. LICK IT UP!
Some of y'all might like this web site shopping/bookmarking thing called Stylehive. I like it well enough, but then I realize that I'm not that good at window shopping - not even online. So much stuff is not in my size, or out of my price range... I don't like to torture myself, sometimes. But go look. I think you'll like it.
I've been working like crazy, when all I really want to do is play World of Warcraft with my kids. (I'm a little bit better than Stan's dad on South Park, though.) I've been trying out new characters. My latest is a troll with hair like that chick from the Big Country video. They have good hairstyles on that game. I might print one out and take it to my stylist. Just kidding, ha ha.
Personally, I think Kirstie Alley is pretty attractive. But, apparently, some people don't. [Second link via.]
I don't know, man... I don't care if you don't find fat chicks attractive. Not everyone can find everyone else attractive, I know. But, seriously, when I see straight men rushing to verbally bash fat women, it sounds exactly the same as straight men accusing others of being gay. It's like a big race to prove that fat women don't turn you on, or that sex with other men doesn't turn you on. And my question becomes: What are these straight men afraid of? Who is going to force them to have sex with Kirstie Alley, or to get it on with another man?
At the same time, when I see women (especially fat ones) bashing other fat women? I just think they're sad, self-hating bitches whose mothers hate them. Because they think that the most powerful weapon in the world is catty comments, and they're rushing to use that weapon against others before it gets used against them (again).
I think the men and women who hate Kirstie Alley for weaing the bikini should all couple up and marry each other. Then, they should all jump off a cliff and die. Holding hands, if they want, so that they don't die alone.
Romantic.
Anyhow.
I stole a copy of Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage from my friend Rose's house. Every time I pick up a book by Munro, I think, "Oh, man, this is gonna just be some flat stories about a chick who gets molested and then convinces herself she likes it, all set in the Canadian wilderness of 1933..." but then I start reading and get completely engrossed. The very first story of this one (same title as book) was so very good, and I can't wait to read the rest. Munro is the master. You can not deny.
I've been lending/giving out a lot of books lately, and that always makes me happy because if I don't give away a few more soon, I'm gonna have to buy another bookshelf.
Remind me to call the exterminator, y'all, by the way, because I saw ANOTHER EFFING SILVERFISH today. Day Two of the Silverfish Diet: Total freaking success, because I couldn't even eat breakfast after that. (This one was the color of dust. I won't tell you where I found it, because it'll make you cry.)
(It was at the foot of my bed.) (Sorry.)
Also, some wasps made a wasp house on my house. I think that's what it is. It looks like a mud battery pack with a hole in one end. I almost knocked it down with the broom, but then I was scared wasps would fly out of it and kill me.
Also, right after that, a stupid grasshopper was on the bricks near by. Normally I hate grasshoppers more than anything on earth, because they are minions of Satan, but this time I thought that maybe the grasshopper was there to eat the wasps. So I didn't do anything. I just went inside. And prayed.
The other night (last bug thing, I swear), my kids were freaking out a little over a big-ass spider that showed up in their room. I'm not scared of spiders at all. They can walk on my hands and I wouldn't care. I felt bad, then, that I had to kill this one. But it was scaring my kids, so you know. I had to use my son's toy sword to knock it off the ceiling. I apologized, then smashed it fast as possible into the ground. Poor thing. My son was upset that I'd used his shoe. The things parents go through...
So. Calling the exterminator, ASAP.
Labels: domestic, insects, pop culture, venting
4:39 PM # (11) commentsMonday, November 06, 2006
HeroesFinally I remembered to try to watch Heroes on TV. And it was okay, but I have to say that TV must suck really freaking bad now, the way critics are falling all over themselves to laud Heroes and Ugly Betty.
I tried to watch Ugly Betty last week but it reeked of so much eau de Ally McBeal that I couldn't. Sorry if you like either of those shows. I actually like A McB, in retrospect. (Ha, ha. Bet you never thought I'd say that, if you even know me from that period in my writing career. Okay - I kind of like it in retrospect. Compared to everything that's happening now, I mean.) But, yeah... the one snippet I saw of Betty, in which Betty's watching the sad little blonde girl hold back tears, just didn't live up to the hype for me.
Then we're watching Heroes tonight, and I really want to like it, but it's hard because half the cast is over-acting the shit out of it, and the other half is trying to stay down-home in the face of all the melodrama. And I'm kind of confused, now that super powers are coming out of the woodwork, and superheroes are tripping all over each other.
You know what show I miss? Freaks and Geeks. I'm glad Judd Apatow (however he spells it, sorry man) is working today. Hopefully making the big bucks, too.
Maybe I'm just being pretentious and in-joke-y all the time, too, but...
I have to say that it's weird to be able to read the thoughts of any semi-famous person in the world now.
Nyarly turned me on to Pandora, which, in turn, turned me on to James Holden's At the Controls.
I bought the CD. I'm playing it tonight, while I work on my revisions. And one of the songs I like a lot - so much that I feel the need to see if this guy has a MySpace or fan site or something so that I can write him as follows:
Dear James Holden,
I bought your CD. That song Lump is cool. Thank you for making it.
Signed,
Gwen
just like I would say to anyone else in the world about their blog post or their sweater or whatever. And I find James' site, which doesn't give a way to email or leave comments. But it does direct me to his MySpace... which also doesn't let you leave comments. So then I go back to his site (oh my gosh, it has refreshing skins) and start reading his tiny scrolling blog box, and it's all about the industry and what's good about it and what's not, plus comments that are only understandable by his DJ friends...
And then I'm like, "Okay, whatever. I'm not cool enough to tell James Holden I liked his song."
I think I need to remove comments and email links from this page. I think that would make me more successful in my writing career. See, that way people would think I was exclusive. If I'm too good for you, I must be worth spending money on, right? All that stuff about having a web presence that allows you to interact with the whole world - that's only for losers, actually. Cool people just sell things. They don't talk to anybody.
When will I learn that. I don't know. I guess when I'm rich, we'll know I'm done learning.
"If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?"
Do you know what book that's from? Call me.
(James Holden, I'm just kidding, man. Hey, that Lump song is awesome.)
Little girls in makeup.
I saw this little girl on a pop-up ad. At first I thought she was porn.
Be careful, little girl. God keep you safe, please.
Just kidding - she's in no more danger than all the other kids, I'm sure.
God, keep all the little kids in the world safe, please. If you can.
Back to the pop culture.
I guess I wanted to see more little kids get rescued. On the TV, I mean.
Me and Tad saw The Prestige the other day. I liked it. If you saw/see it and you figure/d out the twist before the end, please don't tell me. You're so smart, I know, but you don't have to tell me so. I already know.
(Just like: Please, please tell me how you lost weight, but don't tell me how you think I should lose weight. Tell me your stories, but not what to do, okay? I like it better when you use the "I" language. And I'm saying that with extreme love.)
Okay. Off track again. That means time to go!
Love and Japanese cute things!!!,
Gwen
Labels: pop culture
9:50 PM # (10) commentsBetter Styling Through Chemistry
Some of you may remember that, a few weeks ago, my hair suddenly changed from blonde-ish to fire-engine red. Since then, of course, it's faded to medium auburn with chunks of blonde peeking through. Even though I had it professionally, "permanently" done. Red fades. So does brown.
But I liked the part where it was halfway between solid brown and fire engine. So I bought a box of semi-permanent color called Rosewood, aka dark auburn, meaning to refresh as necessary every month or so. I decided last night was as good a time as any to apply. Right before I had to return to work this morning - the perfect time, no? (Eerie foreshadowing, ooh.)
Well, my hair didn't come out the color on the box. Not at all. It came out more like this color, instead. And I didn't see it until this morning, because I'd done the color job late last night, then went to bed with wet hair and a towel on my pillow. (I know. Wrong choices all around.)
I woke my boyfriend this morning with loud whispers. "Baby! Baby, my hair is almost black! Look at me - should I call in sick?"
He squinted at my head for a second, then groaned, "No, baby. Don't call in sick for that."
So, instead, I washed my hair a few times with the not-color-safe shampoo. (It looked like a quart of blackberry juice going down the drain.) Then I conditioned and dried, and came to work. I only look slightly like a vampire now. I mean, actually, I like this color. But I hate to keep coming to work with different hair colors every other week, like some kind of unprofessional something-or-other. You know? I remember there was a girl at UT, in one of my French classes, who did that all the time. I wanted her to stop when her hair was the color of a Mr. Pibb can. She didn't. She didn't stop until her head turned green. I thought she'd taught me a lesson. Apparently, I was wrong.
I think next month I'll try Cinnaberry, though. That should do the trick. Assuming that one comes out right, I promise I won't change color after that for quite a while.
(Unless I change my mind.)
Labels: vanity
1:03 PM # (8) commentsThursday, November 02, 2006
Coffee ShakeEarlier yesterday I was thinking about low-glycemic-index stuff you could eat without crying from frustration, and I invented something new, in my mind.
Coffee shake! A sugar free, real coffee, coffee shake!
Here's what I thought my invention might contain:
real coffee
ice
heavy cream
whey powder
sugar-free flavored syrup
cinnamon (which may or may not bring down insulin resistance)
Then I went on the Google and searched for "coffee shake." I discovered that, not only did I not invent coffee shakes, but that other people had been way more inventive about it than me. Here are things I may or may not put in my coffee shakes, thanks to all the Internet Coffee Shake Pioneers:
unsweetened soy milk
avocado
coconut milk
fiber powder
Coconut milk! That's kind of exciting. They haven't even done that at Starbuck's yet, have they? Avocado I've seen, at the bubble tea places - but I never would have thought to put it in coffee. Wah! (That's the sound effect of magic revelation occurring.)
In other news: Does anybody out there know where Mike's food blog is? I could go look for the link, but man I'm so tired...
Labels: health
8:04 PM # (8) commentsWednesday, November 01, 2006
I know the answer now.I think I do, I mean. I did some research on teh internets, and I've realized that my gynecologist was right, even though she said things in such a dismissive, blow-off-y way.
I'm gonna try to lose 70 pounds. Then, in theory, my ovaries should return to normal.
If anyone speaks to me in an inappropriate way when this is happening, I will simply say, "Would you say that to a man?" Or else I'll elbow them in the nose and make their nose bleed, distracting them long enough for me to get away.
If I accidentally get kidney stones while losing weight (again), and my doctor says, "Maybe you should quit [doing whatever I end up doing to lose weight]," then I will say "Shut up - as if you wouldn't tell me to lose weight in the first place." And then I'll drink something vinegar-y, because that's how I got rid of the stone last time.
If, like Dr. Atkins, I slide on a ramp and hit my head and die (and then people say I had a heart attack because of my unorthodox diet), then I will be dead and who cares what people say? If I'm dead and I hear them saying it, then I'll haunt them or change the channel.
Okay. Ready, break!
Well, first I have to weigh myself, I guess. Then, I'll know what weight to go to. (Seventy was the number I came up with, last time I gave this matter thought. Seventy pounds sounds like a good amount. Not too fat anymore, but also not too thin. Plus, it starts with an odd number, which I like. Actually, I like the word itself: se-ven-ty. Mmm. Sounds good.)
Okay... Seriously, now...
Labels: health
4:33 PM # (12) commentsScene-Setting
Today I accidentally dressed like Alice in Wonderland. I put on a pleated skirt to minimize ironing time, then added tights to keep from having to shave my legs, then the flat Mary Janes that that hurt my corn the least this week, and oops. Cakes saying "Eat me" have appeared all round my head.
In the nearby halls, someone has posted childen's variations on a local company's logo. A bevy of coloring-contest entries, I mean. There are three that are very clearly better than all the rest. On closer inspection, you see that those three were done by three children, all of whom belong to the same person. You go, unisexly-named person I've never met! Raise those artists!
People, People, People
So, like every single other time, I got thwarted in my lunch-time mission to be alone.
I no longer believe that my fellow citizens are doing this to me on purpose (mostly I don't), but something's going on. Long-time readers remember that I can no longer read and eat Jack in the Box tacos in my car, in a nearby normally-deserted parking lot, without party-poopers feeling the need to park right next to me.
So, instead of whining about that more than once, I began parking in a different spot, in such a way that makes it impossible for the lonely space invaders to park alongside.
Well, no. No, no, no. It's not going to work out that way (me being alone, with privacy) because the strangers will just drive in circles near me, peering through their windows. ("What in the heck is that girl doing? Is she eating Jack in the Box tacos and reading a book? Weird!") Or, like today, they will just park illegally, blocking the parking-lot entrance adjacent to my car. Why? I don't know. I hope the person who did that today got immense satisfaction out of it, though.
So then, in the parking garage, I unintentionally inhaled the cologne/deoderant combo of the gentleman twenty steps ahead and wondered if I'm becoming a misanthrope. And, if so, if it's caused by hormones.
The fragrant gentleman and his friend began a disjointed conversation that caused them to slow down. ("So what are you..." "What [turns face into cell phone]?") They slowed down exactly long enough for me to reach them, then sped up to exactly the pace I was walking, so that we were all three walking abreast, as if we knew each other, and it became clear that some kind of rearranging would become imminent at the parking garage door.
So I walked very fast and got away. And I tried not to be a misanthrope about it. And I almost ran into another guy near the elevators. And we both paused at the same time to be polite and let the other go ahead. And he gestured for me to go. And I looked at his face and it looked like a nice face. And the spell was broken and I was glad.
In a huge, airy hall, me and several men walked along behind two women, one of whom had on a belt too tight for her tight low-rise pants. The two women talked loudly. Me and the men fell into silence behind them, awed by the belt and pants, I think. Something fell from the side of the belt-pants women. It hit the floor with a "blap!" She didn't notice, but all the rest of us looked down at it. I felt us all wonder if we should pick it up for her, or at least maybe say, "Excuse me."
The thing she dropped was a condiment packet. Psychically, I felt us all decide not to bring it to anyone's attention.
As I stepped over the condiment packet, I could not resist noticing that it said "Sweet Relish."
For some reason, this embarrassed me so much that I started to giggle. I couldn't stop. Then, twenty steps later, I saw that Pants/Belt had lunch items in her hands. I felt bad, then, imagining her at her desk, wondering what the hell happened to the sweet relish she'd planned to employ.
Cakes Saying "Eat Me"
I'm not even going to talk about what the endocrinologist said yesterday, for fear that it will upset me to dwell on the fact that his diagnosis will most likely parallel that of my gynecologist last year. (In short, I've paid hundreds of dollars for him to very carefully reach the same conclusion, and explain it more fully, but offer no more underlying reason than she did, and treat it with pills that have all the same ingredients as the Pill she gave me, but without any contraceptive effect.) (Maybe. Won't know for sure until after Friday's test.)
But... I'm taking a special, multi-needle test on Friday morning. In the meantime, my endocrinologist explicitly instructs me to eat more carbs. "CARB LOADING," he writes across the paper that tells me what to do.
And so I've thought of a new diet plan, which is "Have your doctor tell you to eat stuff that makes you fat." Because, now that he's told me to do that, I don't want to. I don't feel like eating any carbs at all, now.
And yet, dutifully, I eat a Halloween mini candy bar once or twice per hour. And I think doing that is putting me in a bad mood. Unless I'm already in a bad mood because I'm about to start my period - my third period of the month. No, wait, it's November. First one of the new month, then. But anyway. Maybe that's why I hate people, too. But, then again, conversely, what if that is why people like me? What if my smell - a heady combination of candy, testosterone, and impending blood - is what's making people park, walk, and drop condiments next to me?
I don't know. What do you think? Do you think I should maybe start a new book and become an endocrinologist? See about getting a radio show? Get a hysterectomy? Stop reading so much Kazuo Ishiguro?
I don't know now, I don't know. Everybody, stand back please. Just take twenty steps in the other direction and let me love you again.
Labels: health, psychobabble, stories, vanity
1:14 PM # (8) comments
