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.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Things I've Recently ThoughtI.
Here is a good way to label shared files:
2005 report wickets.doc
2005 report sprockets.doc
2006 report wickets.doc
2006 report cogs.doc
Here is an alternate way to label those same shared files:
wic.rep.doc
spr.DOC.doc
wick06.doc
COGGS.doc
I've been thinking that one of these methods is more efficient, in the long run, for your coworkers, than the other. Guess which one it is.
II.
I might have an undiagnosed brain disorder. I'm starting to think this because every time I create something that other people might see, I spend time thinking about how that work will look to other people. I try to see things from other people's points of view, and create/label/file things so that they're understandable from those points of view.
Now, however, I'm finally starting to realize that that's not normal. Most people I know don't do that.
Hence, something must be wrong with me. The only treatment for this, most likely, would be to segregate myself from normal society. If I were forcibly placed into an environment in which everyone else had the same disorder that I do, it's possible that, as a group, we could function and get along in this world. With support, love, and lots of prayer, I mean.
I'm willing to try it. Is there an environment like that out there? Will someone have me committed?
III.
In my past lives, I did many bad things. I realize this now.
Whatever I did, I apologize for it.
No, seriously - no more penance, you guys. I've learned my lesson. I'm sorry!
Hello?
Labels: venting
11:02 AM # (11) commentsTuesday, December 26, 2006
DissatisfactionLast week I was thinking that I had a lot of stuff to be thankful for. In fact, I felt so thankful that it seemed like Thanksgiving had finally arrived, a whole month late in my mind. Either that or it was another side effect from the cabergoline I've been taking.
This week, however, is a completely different story.
Every year, during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day, I like to make myself completely miserable. Whereas last week I was thankful for having had the means to buy a house and a new vehicle during 2006, this week I told myself I was a complete loser in all other respects.
All year I revised writing I'd already sold, or proposed writing that no one's bought. I didn't sell any new writing at all. I didn't make any extra money at all. Not outside my day job, I mean. And, this week, in my mind, that makes me a loser.
This year, in fact, I feel even worse about it than usual, because this is the year I turn 35.
Who cares, right? It's just a number, and turning 30 didn't bother me at all. But 35 is different, you see, because that's half my life expectancy gone. (Not even taking into consideration that everyone in my family likes to die before age 70.)
I don't feel like I've done enough for half a lifetime. And don't try to make me feel better about it, either. Don't say, "Oh, you've done way more than most people," because most people are lazy. Aren't they? I'm not lazy, so I should have done more.
Don't say, "Oh, you've done [X, with X being some random bullshit thing that anybody could have done.]" Like, today, my friend Julio told me, "You've already done something very important. You've had three kids." What the hell? Any cat on the street can have three kittens. Any crackwhore downtown can get knocked up! Thanks for patronizing me, Julio, you bastard.
Yes, I sold three books, but who cares? That was years ago. What have I done for me lately, though? Not a gosh darned thing. I haven't done enough yet, that's for damned sure.
I like January. You know why? Because that's the month that I get my butt in gear and get stuff done. Before New Year's Day, I want to clean house. Figuratively and literally, I mean - I spent Christmas morning scrubbing my kids' toilet, in fact.
Before January's over, I expect to have my taxes done, my 2007 budget in place, and a freaking life plan on the table. With outlines. And spreadsheets. And a signature in blood.
Okay, well, there it is. I just wanted to tell y'all what's been on my mind lately.
In the meantime, I hope you all had good holidays and traded nice gifts. We have one more party to go, y'all, before the brand new year. Do it right, okay? Have a good one. 4:20 PM # (8) comments
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Beverages: TeaThe older I get, the more I enjoy beverages. I think it's because 1) beverages are good fillers for on-the-go lifestyles and 2) old people get dehydrated all the time.
There's this tea house that's been in Houston's Montrose area for a while, and I kept wanting to check it out but never got a chance, until recently. It's called House of Te (with an accent over the e in Te) or something like that. Me and my boyfriend Tad went there the other day, in the midst of our xmas shopping. Not only did they have eight jillion kinds of tea on the menu, but they had food, too. And tango nights on Fridays.
But all we wanted was tea. So we stood and stared at the white-boarded menu for a while. Tad loves Earl Grey, so he tried Earl Grey with Lavender. I normally like green tea, but they had an oolong called Iron Goddess of Mercy, and how could I resist that?
We flouted conventions by requesting big glasses of ice with our tea pots. (I don't know why British and Asian people don't drink iced tea more often.) I was a little bit sad when I saw that this tea place didn't have Splenda. But then I was happy when I saw that they offered liquid stevia, instead. In four different flavors! With powdered Stevia Plus on the side!
We're gonna go back again and try the food. For this time, though, it was nice to just sit there drinking our iced teas and looking out the window at the balmy December Houston weather.
Beverages: Wine
Later that night, we went to a party, to which Cathy brought the only red wine I've ever loved in my life. (Not counting brachetta or Manischweitz.) (I spelled both of those wrong.)
She brought Red Diamond merlot, and it was pretty awesome. To me, at any rate. Your mileage will probably vary. But if, like Cathy and me, you like Reislings and other sweet stuff, you might very well like Red Diamond, even though it's not really sweet.
In white wine (very local) news, I'm laying off on the moscato di asti because it's starting to taste like Sprite. Which means, it seems, that my palate is maturing. Yay! Nyarly turned me on to Two Faux Frogs chardonnay, and I bought Goats Do Roam on Mike's recommendation, but haven't had time to try it yet. Probably because I've finished all my recent writing deadlines and therefore haven't yet needed it. Ha, just kidding. Okay, no, I'm not.
Here's a fun wine game that I'm sure some of you already play. One person should smell and taste the wine, then guess what flavors it's supposed to contain. The other person should hold the bottle and check the label to see if you're right. I'm pretty good at this game. Behold a recent episode of it, done on a chardonnay that someone abandoned at my house:
Me: [Sniff, sniff. Slurp.] Uh... Pineapple, butter, and gasoline!
Tad: [Reading label.] "Apricot, butterscotch, and smoke." That's good, baby! You guessed it.
Beverages: Other
The other thing I like to drink lately is Swiss Miss No Sugar Added Hot Chocolate with copious amounts of cinnamon. Because that's the best sugar-free thing my office has to offer. And, remember, cinnamon is good for your insulin levels.
And, as long-time readers may remember, we were going to try power smoothies with whole avocados dumped into the blender. And we did. And they're good. Yay!
That's all for now. Feel free to share your recently discovered awesome beverages in the comments.
Labels: domestic
11:17 AM # (18) commentsMonday, December 18, 2006
Weighing InOkay, so, remember how I said I was going to lose 60 pounds? (I said 70 if you click that link, but then later I amended it to sixty, because I didn't weigh as much as I thought I did.)
Well, it's been almost two months since then. And guess how much I lost.
That's right...
I don't know, because I forgot to weigh myself last time I went to the doctor, and I don't own a scale.
Yay!
But I'm thinking I lost about ten pounds. That's how much it feels like. Meaning, I feel like I lost a little, and I see the missing fat spots when I'm home in my bathroom mirror, naked, but no one else can tell yet. Except for Barbara, but she always says that when I wear that skirt. And Tad, but he has to say it because he's my man.
And I'm okay with all that, because my goal is to lose the 60 pounds within a year. That's five pounds a month, right? I think so. So, if my gut feeling (HA! PUN!) is correct, I'm right on target.
Seriously, though - I need to find a scale.
Labels: vanity
9:32 PM # (4) commentsThursday, December 14, 2006
Housewifely PursuitsA while back, I wrote a long post about my post-marriage trauma over the housewifely arts. And then Blogger ate that post. But, in a nutshell, it was about how I was trying to get back into cooking, because I used to enjoy cooking long ago, when I was a housewife, before I came to associate cooking with marital discord.
So, six years post-marriage, I recently tried cooking again. And I realized that I sincerely no longer like it. Not because of any trauma/drama, but because I just don't, anymore. I come home after a long day of corporate activities, and the last thing I want to do is cook.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, really likes to cook, and he's very good at it. So I let him cook, and he makes enough for leftovers on the nights when he's not with us. Or else we microwave things. Or else I order us pizza, or else, worst case scenario, cook something really, really fast. And it's okay. We're all still alive and growing at a normal rate.
I didn't tell y'all this, but a few months back, I also revisited my old sewing hobby - partially inspired by Project Runway, I admit. And then I remembered why I stopped sewing. Poor fabric selection in our town, and I'm too lazy to make buttonholes. Okay. Sewing checked off the list, then.
I started beading again, and I do still like that. I wish I had time to see if I still like to crochet, but I don't. That's just too much. Plus, I don't ever decorate with doilies anymore.
However. This year, I really, really, really want to garden again, for the first time since I got divorced six years ago. Now that I have my own house, I mean.
I ventured on a mini foray last spring, with my first apartment balcony garden. I kept in gardening-shape throughout the year by growing and/or killing several houseplants. I haven't yet had time to re-landscape my new front yard, and yet I think I want a vegetable garden in the spring.
I can't help it. It's calling to me. I look at You Grow Girl and it makes me miss my old gardens. Yes, gardens. If there's one thing I miss about my old life, it's the gardens I used to have.
My plan is to get through Christmas and into January. Then I'll have some guys come over and trim the trees in my front yard, and replace some of the old, overgrown boxwoods with sexy dwarf nandinas. At the same time, I think I'll ask them to dig up the bur-filled grass on the unseen leg of the L that is my back yard. Then, that'll give me the rest of the winter to put a pebble path between what will eventually be my flower beds. At night, I'll salivate over seed catalogs and place my orders. Then, hopefully, in March, I'll be ready to roll.
The best part of vegetable gardening, this year, will be that my boyfriend likes to cook. We've already previewed the seed catalogs a bit, and it's gratifying to point out pretty vegetables and hear him get excited about what he could cook with them.
He likes to cook, and I like to grow things, and that should be a winning combination. If he gets tired of cooking, I can always share the harvest with my friends and coworkers.
I'm getting excited thinking about it but, at the same time, I'm not going to pressure myself. It might turn out that I don't like gardening anymore, after all. And if I don't, then that's okay.
I've been really obnoxious lately, constantly telling friends and coworkers how happy I am not to be married anymore. It's not that I think marriage hinders hobbies as a general rule. It's just nice for me, personally, to be able to try new things, or give up old things, or do whatever the hell I want, without having to check with someone else. Or listen to someone else's critiques of my actions. And, yes, I know that it most likely wasn't marriage that created those issues - it was just my marriage.
But, like I said, I don't have to worry about that any more, ever again. I just wanted to say that I love having my own house, just like y'all told me I would. I might have a garden this spring. Life is good, and I'm thankful.
Labels: domestic, my sex life
1:53 PM # (4) commentsMonday, December 11, 2006
Why Some Men Don't Believe that Women Are FunnySo Christopher Hitchens recently wrote a big old article in Vanity Fair explaining, in great, vague detail, why women aren't funny. And his article made me think of something I've been meaning to tell y'all for a while now.
There's this guy who works at one of the grocery stores in Houston's Inner Loop. He's older - a big white guy a little older than the people you usually find running the registers at Randalls. He has a big, booming voice, too.
"Hello! How are you!" he booms at me whenever I go through his line. And then, he starts with the jokes.
I wish I could repeat one of his jokes to you, but I can't, because they're so incredibly lame that I can't even remember them. But I have to give you an example. Let's say that, while ringing up my groceries, he holds up a package of sushi that one of the kids made me buy, and says something like, "Let's hope this isn't still swimming!" or "Stocking up on the brain food, huh?"
And, if his "joke" seems to require a reply, I'll give him one out of politeness. I'll say "Yes" or "No," or else I'll do the polite one-second smile. If his joke needs no reply, I'll say nothing at all.
Whenever he says something unfunny and I say nothing at all, I swear to you that this guy either passes his hand over his head and makes a whooshing sound (indicating that his joke went over my head), or else he literally mutters, aloud, "O-kay... Not getting through at all here, am I?" As if someone else (a TV audience?) is watching him and appreciating that I'm too stupid to get his jokes.
The funniest, creepiest, most fascinating part of his behavior is the obvious aggression that underlies it. It's like he emanates angry sweat and bile from his very pores while addressing me with his loud voice and bared-fang smile.
I always have to wonder why he does this. He does it to me every time, as if he can't remember me from the time before as the woman who's obviously too stupid to get his jokes. See, in my family, we were raised not to laugh at unfunny remarks, as it only encourages people to continue being unfunny. And yet, there must be female shoppers who laugh at this man's jokes. It must happen often enough for him to feel entitled to our laughter.
None of that has anything to do with Mr. Hitchen's suppositions, I know. But that's what they made me think of.
Not to be conceited, but I'm pretty funny. Seriously as hell, I'm one funny bitch. Not so much on this blog, maybe, and maybe not even so much in my books. But, if you know me in real life - if you ever drink with me or you've ever gone to one of my readings, or heard me on the radio - you know I can crack the jokes. Every time I do a reading, someone asks me during the question-and-answer part, "Why don't you become a stand-up comedian?"
(And I say, "Because being a lower-than-midlist author pays so much more.")
(No, just kidding. I say, "Because I don't like being around lots of big, unfunny white guys who emit the scent of anger and joke about their hatred for the women who won't sleep with them.")
(No, just kidding. I tell them, "Because Christopher Hitchens says that women aren't funny.")
And, actually, I'm not being conceited at all, because I can't take credit for my own joke-cracking ability. It's all on my family. This is what I always explain to people at my readings, and this time I'm telling them the truth: Growing up, in my dad's house, the rule was that if you weren't saying something funny, you weren't allowed to speak.
I'm not kidding. Every weekend night, all the neighborhood boys would come to my dad's house to watch movies on his newfangled VCR. So it'd be my dad, all my (male) cousins, both my brothers, and all their male friends from the neighborhood. And we'd watch movies, and lots of the movies would be pretty stupid, because we watched whatever was newly for rent at the local convenience store. And, of course, people would shout out comments during the movies. And, if your comment was funny, everyone would laugh.
If your comment was not funny, everyone would say "Shh!" or even "Shut up." Even my dad. My dad, loudest of all.
The third time you said something unfunny, in fact, you'd be ordered to leave the room.
I'm not kidding. You think I'm making it up, but I'm not.
So, in my house, growing up, if you ever wanted to find out what happened to Jean-Claude Van Damme at the end of Bloodsport you had to be funny, or you had to be silent. And God knows I could never be silent.
There aren't a lot of women in my family, but the ones who are there are some of the funniest bitches I know. You know how I'm always telling y'all, in this blog, that I enjoy hanging out with my family on the holidays? It's because all we do is crack jokes and make fun of each other. The women a lot louder than the men, sometimes. And, FYI, we work blue. In fact, the dirtier we can be, the better. Except for one of the cousins, who unfortunately didn't get yelled enough in her youth. Sometimes she admonishes us. "The kids, you guys! The kids are listening!" or "Please don't make jokes about my lost virginity in front of Uncle Manuel, y'all." And we just tell her to shut up, and keep going. And Uncle Manuel laughs, and makes a really cold-blooded, messed up joke about the dirtiest thing you can imagine.
My boyfriend says I'm the funniest person he knows. And yet...
When I first met my boyfriend's gang of guy friends, I immediately loved them. You know why? Because they were just like my family. They laughed and joked and made fun of each other. (Picture the gang on 40-Year-Old Virgin, and you'll know what I mean, sorta.) I immediately felt comfortable around them, and I joined right in with the jokes.
And, whoa. They were taken a little off guard. No one laughed. They just looked askance, and then restarted the conversation.
And then I met their girlfriends, and then I understood. They weren't used to girls being funny. They were used to girls sitting in the corner, talking about lipgloss and purses, and completely ignoring the men's jokes.
Luckily, though, they all got used to me pretty quickly, and now we laugh and have fun. And I no longer have to lecture my boyfriend about wanting to be accepted as I truly am. Or whatever.
As I get older, I seem less funny in real life. And I think that's because I've learned. Not that humor is inappropriate, and not that it's immature, but that a lot of people get weirded out by women being funny.
On the elevators at work, I sometimes run into a guy who considers himself a humorist. A guy will bust out a witticism and, if it's funny enough and I'm in the mood, I'll piggyback on it and say something funny in response. Sometimes, something funnier than what he said. An invitation, as it were, for him to be even funnier.
Once in a long while, the guy will laugh, or - even better - banter right back.
Unfortunately, usually, though, he'll act like I said nothing at all. Even if everyone else on the elevator laughed aloud. Or else the funny guy will look at me askance, as if he's not sure what I'm trying to do. As if my sole purpose on that elevator is to be a part of his audience. And I feel like saying, "Dude, I'm not trying to co-opt your penis, okay? I'm just trying to have some fun."
And there's nothing sadder than a wasted joke, so as time goes by, I've stopped trying as much. Or else I make my joke, for my own ears alone, and then stare straight forward, not waiting for some man to appreciate it.
If I'm on the elevator full of women and I make a joke, the women will laugh, but none of them will engage. No other woman will make a joke back, banter with me, help me alleviate the hell that is our corporate existence. Because, I imagine, they've learned to stop trying a long time ago.
There are maybe two women in my building who say funny things, in front of women or men, and who don't laugh politely when unfunny men make stupid jokes. And, from afar, I love those women like sisters.
And I love my family, and I love my boyfriend's friends. And, if you make me laugh, with your words or your writing, then I love you, too, whether you're a boy or a girl. But if you make me laugh and you're a woman, then I also salute you. Rock on, my sister.
And eff you, Christopher Hitchens. Eff you, the sad horse you rode in on, and your bitter brother-in-arms at the grocery store.
Labels: pop culture, venting
10:29 AM # (30) commentsThursday, December 07, 2006
You go, little girl.The other day I was in Target, walking around like a zombie, and I heard a toddler girl making noise in the toy aisle. She said stuff like, "Mama" and "Ahh!" and "Uh!"
Then, I swear to gosh on the Bible, the little girl bursts into song. What does she sing? "We are family! We are family!"
I had to laugh.
O Christmas Tree
I got one, after all. An eight-foot-high Frasier fir. The Frasiers are my favorites. My boyfriend likes Douglasses for their bushiness, but I think ornaments need room to hang.
Okay, no more euphemistic-sounding talk around the Christmas tree.
For once, the guy who cut and bagged my tree did a really good job. His cut was straight, and my tree therefore fits beautifully in its stand, with no leaning. All this may or may not be due to the fact that I went to Home Depot this year and not Lowe's. For some stuff I prefer Lowe's, and Home Depot certainly has its share of disgruntled employees. But Lowe's employees, in my experience, have consistently shown the most Christmas-tree-related apathy. So, no more of my tree money for them.
I love our Christmas tree a lot and I'm glad I bought it. We haven't even put ornaments on it yet - it's just sitting there in the stand in the corner of our living room, looking all plant-y and triangular and awesome. I tried to take a picture of it for y'all, but I think it moved or something because the picture came out all blurry. I tried to hug the tree - I was compelled - but it's hard to hug something like a big, triangular pipe cleaner. I held several of the bristles to my face, meaning to kiss them. But then I just smelled them, instead, because I didn't want to look like a freak. Its trunk is still soft. It smells green.
We're going to give it as much water as we can, but I'm sad already, thinking about our tree's eventual death. I wish it could stay alive forever inside our house.
I think I was in denial, earlier. I thought I didn't want a tree. Really, though, I wanted one too much.
I wish I could do something to make ours stay alive.
Failing that, I wish I could sink my teeth into it and eat it. Mm - Christmas tree sandwiches...
Please don't tell anybody I said that.
Labels: domestic
3:45 PM # (7) commentsTuesday, December 05, 2006
The Difference Between Me and Will SmithThe difference between Will Smith and me isn't obvious... until you see the preview for his new movie, The Pursuit of Happyness.
At first I thought that trailer made me cry because it was a heartwarming story with a sad little boy and sad music. But no. I realized, upon a careful third viewing this weekend, that the trailer makes me cry because the father character in this movie is such a horrible person.
Maybe I'm wrong and the movie's going to be brilliant, but this is what I'm getting from the trailer regarding the movie's plot:
1. Will Smith's character's wife leaves him, and he becomes a single dad.
2. Will Smith's character loses his job, and subsequently gets evicted.
3. Either before or after #2 above, Will Smith's character is impressed by the stockbroker lifestyle and the fancy sportscars it entails.
4. Will Smith's character is unable to get an office job, but he does get an internship at Dean Witter.
5. Will Smith's character and his son are homeless, living in public restrooms, while Will Smith's character behaves passionately and erratically during his quest to become a stockbroker.
6. [Assumed - not shown in trailer:] Will Smith's character succeeds and becomes a stockbroker and gets rich and teaches his son that he, too, can be anything if he just tries hard enough.
See, that's the difference between Will Smith and me. I wouldn't be in a movie about a man who lets his son be homeless in order to become a rich stockbroker.
Because, if my son and I were facing potential homelessness, I'd take any damn job I could to keep that from happening. Even if it meant I couldn't eventually afford a fancy sportscar.
I guess that's why I'm not starring in any movies, though. Silly me.
Speaking of Pretty Cars
A woman in my neighborhood drives a black Infiniti G35. I see her every morning and afternoon, during my commute. And now I covet that car. It has a beautiful shape, for one, and there's something about the paint job on it that reflects the sky in the awesomest way. Or maybe she hand-waxes the car, and that makes the difference. I don't know.
Other cars I like this year: the Ford Mustang, the little Scion, and the Hyundai Sonata. I kind of like the Dodge Charger, too. It's brutish, but still kind of cool.
However, I really don't care if I drive a pretty car or not. Practicallity is more important to me. I texted all my friends Saturday and told them I got a minivan. Later, one of my friends left me a vmail expressing disbelief that I would pick something so not-awesome. But, dude... my Dodge Caravan is awesome. All my kids fit into it, and it gets better mileage than an SUV, and it was cheaper than the Toyota Sienna. Plus, I lucked out and found one with a V6 and 3.3 L. So it's strong and stable, too. I like the weight of it on the road. (I didn't like the Chevy Uplander at all.) And did I tell y'all? It was cheap.
It's enough for me to look at someone else's G35 once in a while. I don't need to own one, myself. And I don't care what people think when they look out the window at me. I only care about what's inside... my minivan.
Labels: pop culture
9:18 AM # (7) commentsMonday, December 04, 2006
Mission Not AccomplishedI'm doing this so that y'all (people who know me in real life, plus anyone else who might care) can see how my real life actually goes. Remember last week, when I had a list of 8 things I planned to do over the weekend? Well, here's the list again, and how I fared:
No. Instead, we had dinner with my boyfriend's friends. Which is fun, of course, but not exactly the same thing.
2. Buy a new (used) car.
Yes. I bought a minivan. Woo hoo! That took up most of my time.
No. Instead we went to the movies to slake off the wired-ness from buying the minivan. Then, we went home and I think I fell asleep on the couch. All I remember is saying, "I think I'll have a glass of wine to calm my nerves." Then, Michael Douglas was on the TV, no matter how many times I said, "I don't like him." Then, I woke up in my bed and it was Sunday morning.
Ha, ha. Yeah, right.
5. Put up Christmas lights, maybe buy a Christmas tree.
Half done. Well... One-quarter done. We bought Christmas lights. Knowing me, they'll sit in the living room until next year.
Jesus, I cringe thinking about how much my neighbors must hate me right now. And, apparently, my pine tree spent all Sunday crapping pine cones.
Ha, that never happens. Except late at night, when there are spooky noises outside, and I just saw a spooky movie. That's when I'll be alone, for sure. Murphy's Law.
No. Maybe next summer.
Guess what I did do, though? Besides get a mini van and drive to Austin to pick up my kids? That's right... I went to the grocery store and saved $56 with coupons!!! And I cleaned the kitchen, and cleaned the refrigerator! And my boyfriend cleaned the bathroom while I watched with tears of gratification in my eyes.
Yes. Well. There you go - Chapter 5,367 of my exciting life.
Okay. No more to-do lists for at least a year now. Thank you for your indulgence.
Labels: domestic
3:12 PM # (5) commentsSaturday, December 02, 2006
Re-live the magic.New Year's Eve 2005/2006:
The story. And a little bonus footage.
(Remember, you guys. NEVER AGAIN.)
Labels: photos
10:10 PM # (0) commentsFriday, December 01, 2006
Christmas Gift Expectations and InadequacyI have this friend. Let's call her Trudy. (Trudy, you're going to know I'm talking about you when you read this. But no one else will know unless you tell them. Don't be sad. I love you. This is a story about our love.) Trudy and I have known each other since 5th Grade.
No, wait. That's not how I should start this. Let's start again.
As longtime readers know, I grew up pretty poor. Actually, I was born rich, in the most beautiful neighborhood in Houston, but then, over the years, Corporate America and Cruel Circumstance shifted in such a way as to watch my family turn poor. Very, very poor. As poor as you can be while still having a house to live in.
So I was 15, 16, 17 years old, and very poor. And yet Christmas still occurred, every year, like it always does.
You know how easy it is for non-poor adults to get caught up in feelings of guilt and inadequacy when it comes to giving gifts. And you know how teenagers' lives are often just long strings of shame and melodramatic humiliation. So, I'm sure you can imagine how crappy it felt for me, as a teenaged girl, to be poor and unable to buy nice gifts for the people I loved.
So, I got creative. Often, right at the last minute - right before the party or the dinner or the choir rehearsal, I would run around our big, drafty house and grab all the materials I could - anything sparkly or expendable - and make my friends gifts. Often, the gifts would be comprised of completely nonsensical things. Or pilfered things. Or things I'd completely invented from found objects and scraps of paper.
Usually, they included writing. It wasn't enough, I knew, to give someone a pair of safety goggles that I'd borrowed from our high school's biology lab. But, if I wrote a story to go along with it - like, say, a story about the goggles having magic that would enable the wearer to view their football-playing crush's underwear - then it was passable. It was funny - a personalized gag gift.
Like I said, I would create these gifts at the last possible minute, and wrap them in comics or aluminum foil or discarded ribbons, and give them to my friends quickly, and swallow down the lumps of shame while I tried to graciously accept their beautiful gifts in return. And, as soon as Christmas was over, I'd breathe the pure relief, and go back to being normal-poor instead of Christmas-poor.
And then I got older, and I got a scholarship, and I went away, and I got married, and I got credit cards, and I wasn't poor anymore. And, thank God, and on the Christmasses that came then, I would by my friends completely normal gifts and feel so freaking good about it. And, once in a while, one of my friends would say, "Remember that year you gave me a whole box of stuff with a list of clues, and one of the gifts was safety goggles you stole from Ms. Alexander's class, and you said they were x-ray goggles and I could use them to see Elias's underwear?"
No, I'd say. Jesus, no, I don't remember that. Thank God. How embarrassing.
I have this friend named Trudy. She's been my friend since fifth grade. Like me, she grew up poor. Like me, thank God, she's doing well now, and I'm so happy for her.
Even though we've lived far away from each other for the last fifteen years, Trudy still always wanted to exchange gifts. Even though we sometimes didn't get a change to do it until January. Part of our ritual has always been exchanging wish lists, first. Sometimes the wish lists contain funny items. Trudy's, I noticed, often contained small things that sounded like groceries. "She must be worried that I can't afford anything better than that," I'd think. A lot of times, I'd ignore her list and buy her something nice, instead.
Last year, I told her, "Trudy, I love you to death, but it's getting to be a massive pain in the ass for us to do our gift exchange. Do you mind if we don't do it this year? Can we just try to get together some time for lunch, instead?"
I hate that we hardly see each other in real life anymore. When we do see each other, one or both of us always has to drag kids/husbands/boyfriends along, because God forbid two women with families should be allowed a single day on their own, right? Y'all mommies out there know what I'm saying. So, I kind of hated getting all involved with the gift/list exchange, then hoping for a chance to see each other in December or January. It was stressing me out. Plus, Trudy kept putting weird stuff on her wish list, and I kept stressing over what to actually buy her. Surely, she didn't just want socks and candy bars and shampoo. But how was I supposed to know what to buy?
A few weeks ago, Trudy called me and, among other things, said, "Hey, I know we said last year that we weren't going to do a gift exchange, but is there any way you'd want to do it this year? It'll only be you and me - we won't buy stuff for the kids or the men."
"Um..." I said. She wasn't the only person I'd skipped last year. A couple of my other friends sent out anti-consumerist emails stating that they didn't want to exchange gifts - they'd wanted to have dinner or lunch, instead. And it had worked out well. Gift buying really stresses me out. I was glad to cut my list short last year - why would I backslide this year?
"I know this is dumb," Trudy said, "but I really miss our gift exchange. Remember, back when we were kids, how we used to give each other candy and painted pennies and rocks and stuff? And we'd write each other letters, and draw cartoons? Seriously, Gwen, those were some of the best gifts I ever got. I know it's corny, but I kind of miss that."
When she said that... I know this is kind of corny, but it almost made me cry.
I didn't even remember, until she said it, that we used to give each other pennies that we'd decorated with nail polish. I barely remember any Christmas-specific letters or cartoons, but, thinking back now, I can imagine what they must have contained. Expressions of loyalty. Laughter over our hardships. Uninformed jokes about sex. Fantasies of what we'd be when we got older. All closed with SYBF - Signed Your Best Friend.
So then, all of a sudden, I knew what she'd meant for the last fifteen years. She'd never wanted "normal" gifts, or "nice" things. She wanted what we used to exchange - the tangible expressions of our love.
All that sounds completely cheesy and homosexual, I know. But I'm not playing Charlie Brown theme music in the background here, and I'm not about to launch into a story about us having a pillow fight in lingerie.
I'm just saying. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about giving gifts this year. 9:07 AM # (9) comments
