May 3, Houston: The big one -- the Inprint reading -- occurs at the Alley Theatre on Monday, May 3. Do not miss it or you'll be sorry. I'm not kidding -- I'm going to say the craziest, most intellectual yet hilarious stuff I can think of, and I'll be sharing the stage with the ultra sexy Oscar Casares, too.
June 24, Houston: I'm one of the peeps scheduled to read at Poison Pen, at Houston's famous Poison Girl bar. Besides me, everyone there will be ultra, *super* sexy. Come see me and drink!
June 26, Washington, DC: I'll be reading at the American Library Association conference. Come on down.
My other blog: Go read my the Houston Chronicle parenting blog (or my ChronMomBlog, as I like to call it) and make sure my kids won't resent me more than other kids resent their own parents.
Buy my new novel, Lone Star Legend. Already did? Well, buy a few more for your friends, then. :)
Tuesday, February 27, 2007Passive Hits
One of the things I've been working on, as far as self-improvement goes, is passive aggressiveness. I'm trying to eradicate all traces of it from my life.
When I was younger, I used to think that the best (safest) way to hit on someone was to do it ambiguously. That way, if they liked you back, they would say so (hopefully). And, if they didn't like you back and said so, you could always deny your interest in the first place.
Now that I'm older and have lived through more things, I've done a complete 180 emotional reversal on this issue. I hate it when people hit on me ambiguously, or express their romantic interest passively. And I see now how inconsiderate that sort of behavior is. Here are all my reasons why:
1. The other person knows that you like her/him, and yet you are giving her/him no opportunity to turn you down.
For example, you think you're clever when you say things like, "So, Cillian Murphy, would you ever date a single mom of three who likes to write? Hee, hee."
Meanwhile, Cillian Murphy is thinking, "I don't want to date you, Gwen." And yet he can't say it, because you didn't ask that question, and he is too well mannered to answer the question you didn't ask.
2. It's creepy.
Like I said, the other person already senses that you like him/her, and yet you never say anything outright, so he/she never says anything outright, and the situation drags on and on and on. And you're content to let it drag, because, that way, you can still fool yourself into believing that your unrequited feelings are secretly mutual. But, meanwhile, the other person is wondering more and more what the hell is wrong with you, and why you can't take a freaking hint.
3. It's the technique that perverts use.
You know how perverts on the subway sneak up next to you, slowly ooze into a fondle or squeeze, and then, if you face them, they say, "Excuse me," as if their touching your ass was an accident?
Don't do that to people. Not physically, and not emotionally. Don't ask for a phone number on false pretenses, then call that person late at night, when you're drunk enough to have the guts. Don't pull the "Oops, I kissed you because I was drunk" maneuver. Don't try the old "I rubbed up against you because I'm half asleep" routine. It fills your victim with complete, utter disgust.
4. It's insulting.
If you're pretending to be someone's friend for months or years on end, solely because you're secretly living for the possibility that that person will "wake up" one day and decide to sleep with you... Then you aren't a very good friend. You aren't a friend at all. You're dishonest and manipulative, and when the other person realizes that, you will totally blow any chance you might have had to score.
5. Most important reason: Confidence is sexy.
It's way, way sexier. So is honesty, even when it's difficult to display. Hasn't it ever happened to you that someone walks up and flat-out asks you on a date, or says, "I find you really attractive"? And, even if you never gave that person a second look before, don't you feel flattered? And, as long as the person is candid-but-not-creepy, aren't you impressed by his/her confidence? If you're a normal person, you are, right? (I'm talking to normal people and not jerks, who aren't worth asking out, anyway.)
Just be honest. Just come out and ask. I could have a million reasons for turning you down. It might be what you're afraid of hearing. I.e., "No. You disgust me. How dare you suggest such a thing."
But, since I'm not a jerk, it would sound more like, "I'm flattered, but no, thank you." And then you'd know for sure, and you could move on with your life.
Or, who knows? The answer could be "Yes. Hell yes!" Or, it could be, "You know, I never thought about you in that way. But now that you've flattered and impressed me, I might." Or, it could be, "I'm not dating right now, but I'll certainly keep you in mind for when I am." Or, it could be, "No thanks, because I have a boyfriend, but how about I introduce you to my friend Samantha?"
But you will never know until you ask. And, if you creep me out instead of just asking, the answer will never be yes. 7:15 PM # (14) comments
Monday, February 26, 2007Oh my god.
Again, I feel like I can't say anything because this site, being public, is so censorable. What if someone reads it and decides not to give me a job? Oh, no...
I just got slightly sad news but it didn't make me feel sad. I feel okay. So now I'm trying to figure out if I really am okay (that is, growing a thicker skin), or if I'm just processing the news so I can get sad later.
I think it's that it's very close to spring here, and that's the only thing that matters lately.
Now, suddenly, I want to win the lottery. I want to lose all responsibilities, give up, lie on my back in a stream and just float. With money. Without worries. With nice dinners for my children.
Actually... I feel very virtuous this week because I finally finished my taxes last week. It feels good to finish big res-pon-si-ble things like that and then never, ever worry about them again. until next year.
Specs and Blends
I have questions.
1. Don't you think that people who work in liquor stores would do well to give you good recommendations, as opposed to pushing the wines that they get a few bonus dollars to push? Because, if, say, the blonde chick at Specs doesn't suggest something really good, how will I ever trust her again? And then, why would I shop in her store anymore?
2. Why do they always suggest/push the blended wines? Seriously, why? I have never had a blended wine I liked. Why do people even make or sell them?
3. Am I cheap? Am I a cheap wine floozy? Maybe I only like low quality stuff. Even though I think my pallette (oops, I'm spelling that wrong) continues to mature. I think I'm half-way there, as far as decency in wine taste goes. But how do you know? Also, if you really like cheap wine, is that so wrong? Is it something to be ashamed of as you go up the ladder of life? I hope not. I used to like Little Debbie cakes, and now I would never eat them, but I don't hate the person that I used to be. No, I love her. I'm glad to have known her.
4. Do you like gin?
When do you have enough, and when do you give up? Those are two completely separate things. But, seriously, I want to know. When do you have enough money or success? Will you never be happy if you can't seem to stop? Will you get rich and then still not be satisfied? Or do the periodic vacations make it worth it?
Contrariwise, when do you give up? When do you (other people) admit you just don't give a shit anymore? Can you ever truly be happy, without demons chasing you every night, telling you that you're a freaking loser if you don't try, try again, if you don't do everything in your power to put your children far out of reach of poverty's jaws? How? Especially if you don't have upper-middle-class parents to fall back/leech on, I mean? How is it possible? Is it, or not?
I will erase this in the morning.
Or else I just won't. Seriously, what does it matter? If you're reading this and it's upsetting you, there's nothing I can ever write that will help you, or convince you of my goodness. So desert me. I don't care. I'm happy alone.
I'm going to plant a garden in March sometimes. If that doesn't balance my universe, nothing will.
Labels: venting7:24 PM # (14) comments
Wednesday, February 21, 2007Back Yard
Regular visitors to my back yard include a young squirrel, a tiny and voracious wren, and several mourning doves.
Today it's unseasonably, beautifully warm - about 78 degrees - and I have the flu. But I went outside for a moment in case the sun would do me some good. I took my windchimes from the patio chair where they've been rotting for several months, and hung them.
I didn't have enough hooks plugged into the house, but I went ahead and hung two chimes from my pear tree. It's not windy enough to make them ring. It would be a surprise for later, then, the sound they make.
Just now I heard one ringing. It was because a mourning dove landed in the pear tree. I thought the chime would scare him away, but it didn't.
That's all. I'm glad it's warm today. I wish I was less flu-fully tired, because then I could go buy flowers to plant, or something. But I'm exhausted. In a little while, I'll probably go back to sleep. Again.
Labels: domestic2:50 PM # (3) comments
Tuesday, February 20, 2007I spoke too soon.
Moms do get sick. I guess I have the flu now. Or its nephew, 24-Hour Flu-Like Virus. I didn't stop feeling beat up this morning, in fact, it only got worse, so I drove home at lunch time and have been in bed since then. Now I'm awake, eating soup. I hope to God I don't start puking my guts up. But I don't think I will, because I feel voraciously hungry instead. I think my body knows what to do. Eat the virus out.* Ache it out. Sleep it off.
I admire people who make things.
I keep wanting to take extra pics for my own Flickr page, but I haven't done so yet. Haven't remembered to take my camera around. I could use the cell phone, but actually, no, I had to stop that because I get charged, like, 5 cents a photo, and last time it added $20 to my bill.
I'm waiting for a university to pay me. I'm waiting, waiting for good news. Waiting for a star to fall... Can't remember who sings that song. Also, there is a song about waiting by John Bon Jovi that I couldn't stop thinking about in the workplace cafeteria today. Sometimes I think about lyrics that mean what's going on in my life.
How do you say hot dog in Spanish? I tried to say it today but the words wouldn't come to me. My boyfriend thought it might have literally been perros calientes, but I don't think so. Try it and see:
Me: Tienen perros calientes hoy?
Hamburger lady: No, pero [points to Vietnamese food station next door.]
My boyfriend: No, they only have cat today.
Speaking of racist stereotype humor... I'm gonna try to tell y'all a funny conversation we had the other day. Background: My boyfriend was born in Vietnam, so it's okay for him to say stuff about Vietnamese people. I am Latina and White, so it's okay for me to say stuff about my own peoples, too. Also, when we are together, it's okay for us to make observations about each other's people... as long as they're funny. Okay.
So we were in Houston's VietnamTown area, eating at this place we always eat at. And, next to that place is a place called Cyborg Tax. And, as it often does, the mere existence of Cyborg Tax got on my boyfriend's nerves.
Tad: That's so stupid. Who the hell would name their tax place that shit?
Me: I think that's a bad-ass name for a tax place. Anyway, it was probably an old Asian couple, and they didn't speak English too great, so they asked one of their kids to pick a name. They were like, [poorly mimicking Vietnamese accent] "Jimmy, what good name for our store?" And Jimmy was like [miming kid playing on Playstation], "I don't know. How about cyborg?" And they were like, "What's that?" and he was like, "It's something really cool."
Tad, shaking head in disgust: No. That's not how it happened. Here's how it happened. [Re-does my skit with brilliant, spot-on Vietnamese accent and Americanized teen voice:]
"Jimmy, you help with store. What we name it?"
"Uh... How about Cyborg Tax?"
"Cybog? What that?"
"You know... Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator."
"Oh, I like that! He a Republican!"
See how my boyfriend's funnier than me? But, actually, I bet I'm funnier than him when it comes to making fun of my own people. Someday we'll have to have a big, racist Joke Off* and see.
* Ha, ha, that sounds dirty. 6:19 PM # (7) comments
Do you ever wake up mysteriously sore? Feeling like someone hit you with a bag full of hammers all night? That happened to me this morning and I don't know why. All we did last night was play a little Guitar Hero.
Maybe I secretly have the flu. Or whatever my kids had last week, but just strung out into various symptoms here and there. Because moms don't get sick, you know. We don't have time. Therefore, we spread it out, one symptom at a time.
That must be it.
Did y'all see Marie Antoinette? I finally did and have to tell y'all that I loved it. The way people said I was supposed to feel about Lost in Translation? Was the way I felt about this one. (I always fall asleep when Scarlett Johanssen and Bill Murray get on the subway or whatever.) I thought about Marie throughout my commute the next morning.
Maybe I just liked it because I married young, myself, and so sort of identified. Every time I see a movie I liked, I go to Rotten Tomatoes and check out its reviews. Mainly in order to drive myself crazy, I guess, because, invariably, there's a bad/mean/ignorant review that annoys me. Yesterday I read reviews of Marie Antoinette and saw that a lot of men really hated it. A lot of people, also, were annoyed that Coppola didn't show the beheadings at the end.
I think it's weird, that people were thirsty for blood like that. Some people, I think, can't watch a movie about a woman unless she either a) shows her boobs, or b) gets some kind of comeuppance. And that is weird. And sad. And gross.
Does it seem like I've been going into raptures over every movie we've seen in the past couple of weeks? I haven't. Here are movies we've seen lately that I didn't feel compelled to mention at all: Ghostrider, Breakfast on Pluto, Epic Movie, Mozart and the Whale, and Eragon.
Actually, Mozart and the Whale was pretty cool. It's just like every Meg Ryan movie I've ever seen, except that the Meg Ryan character and her boyfriend both have Asperger's Syndrome. It was funnier than I expected it to be.
A Happy, Happy Morning
My coworker, first thing this morning, is on the phone, totally bitching out a credit card company employee. As far as I can make out from her very loud conversation, she's pretending she wants to cancel an account for which she never received a number. But, as far as I can intuit, she's actually hoping that bitching at them will make them increase the limit on said account.
I'm a morning person, but that doesn't mean that I enjoy getting up at 5:30 to go to work. I hate it, actually. Every single morning, I have to mentally nag myself like crazy in order to roll out of bed. Unless it's the weekend. On the weekends, I cheerfully wake up at 8:30 AM and run into the shower, where I sing.
So anyhow. I feel like, once I'm dressed and in my car, I'm on a mission to maintain the good morning feelings for as long as possible. I play some nice music and it's like inertia - my good mood will continue until it's impeded.
Usually, the impediment shows up right around 8 AM, whether in the form of antique allergens behind our walls or, in this case, a coworker having a very loud, pissy, personal phone conversation right behind my head.
Good morning starshine. The earth says hello, dammit.
Everyone else, please have a very good morning. 8:35 AM # (1) comments
Sunday, February 18, 2007Advice for Writers, from a Writer:
Writing with Kids in the House
[Gwen, you write] with three kids. And may I ask you: How is that possible? I can't imagine my daughter letting me work when she is awake. (I write but after she is asleep or when she is in daycare.) Is there some technique you used? Does it change when they get older? Do you have any tips? (Hope I don't sound too desperate--even though I am.)
It does change when your kids get older, yes. Now that mine are 14, 12, and 9, I can scream at them to be quiet while I work and, half the time, they actually listen.
No, just kidding. What I mean is that, now that they're older, they know how to microwave their own dinner, so cooking doesn't cut into my valuable writing time.
No, just kidding. Seriously, what I mean is that, now that they're all in school, I can take the day off work once in a while and write at home, blessedly alone.
Okay, so I'm not kidding about any of that.
As soon as your kids get old enough to understand, tell them what you're doing and why. If they want, have them sit next to you and write their own stories.
When they're a little younger? Tell them, "Come here. Mommy's going to tell you a story." Then, read your work to them as you're writing it. It's a good way to revise as you go, and it usually bores my kids to tears, so that they never interrupt my writing time again.
(Works on the boyfriend, too.) 6:32 PM # (1) comments
Friday, February 16, 2007God, I love YouTube.
1. The best video clip in the world, in which Buck Rogers, 20th century space pilot displaced inti the 25th century, in two fell swoops, with nothing but intuition, teaches a DJ how to play disco at Princess Ardala's party. Dude, I used to rent this awesome '80s movie just to watch this scene.
2. Same thing, with "What Is Love."
3. Same thing, with Nate Dog.
4. Buck, Wilma, and Princess Ardala in a Bizarre Love Triangle. As Gen X'ers know, this was the Pitt/Jolie/Anniston debacle of the '80s. As long-time readers know, I sided with Ardala.
5. What's better, Buck's chest hair, or Buck's roundhouse?
6. Buck Rogers homage to Charlie's Angels, and robots getting it on.
7. Happy birthday, Buck Rogers! Celebrate with a spandex fetish. Also, nice futuristic coat rack, you guys.
8. Spandex, steam, and gold lame.
9. Wilma and the midget gang rape, featuring a young Tony Cox.
10. In the '80s, female heroines could only be sexual while under an influence. In this case, the influence is space vampires.
11. Did you know? Buck Rogers invented electroclash.
12. Even cats like Buck Rogers.
Labels: pop culture5:41 PM # (9) comments
Wednesday, February 14, 2007Down and Dirty Mothering
Yesterday, after work, I had to brave the grocery store to get last-minute Valentine's Day supplies for my kids. I wanted to get a surprise gift for my boyfriend, as well, but nothing at Kroger looked good, so I decided I'd wait until this morning and try somewhere else.
I stopped on the way home from the grocery store and bought my kids a nutritious dinner from Whataburger.
I came home, force-fed the burgers and chicken strips, nagged everyone about homework and chores, and then started my work. My other work, I mean. Not my day job, but my writing. While I worked, I kept in touch with my kids' activities via frequent hollering.
I worked my brians out. I tore it up. I finished what I'd set out to do so many weeks before, thank God. And then, two of my children screamed. "Mom! Dallas threw up!"
I ran into one of the bedrooms just in time to see Dallas projectile vomit all over the floor, the bed, and his music stand. Quick as a mom, though, I took care of the situation. Within half an hour, all was purged and everything detoxed.
Dallas asked to lie on the couch and watch TV while his brothers finished up their chores and pre-bedtime rituals. I said okay. I went back to work (there's always more work to do) and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He fell asleep on the couch. His brothers fell asleep in the other bedroom, the one that had clean sheets.
Dallas woke up suddenly and puked into the bowl I'd left on the floor at his side. I jumped up and helped him, then detoxed again. I realized I would have to put Dallas in my bed for the night, since he obviously had a virus or else seriously bad Whataburger poisoning.
So, then, Dallas and I went to bed, whereupon we entered a twilit hell. From 9 PM until 6:30 AM, we never slept for more than a half-hour stretch. I won't go into extreme detail, but I will say that, during the night, I queued up a lot of emergency laundry, including two sets of bed sheets, two blankets, three pillows, two towels, four washclothes, one set of woman-sized pajamas and three pairs of boy-sized boxers.
In the morning, my other two sons got themselves dressed and went to the schoolbus stop. I supervised this via hollering from my bed, or from the bathroom as I held Dallas' head, as the moment required.
I went ahead and called in sick to work. (Because I also had diarrhea today, hence it was a real sick day, hence anyone reading this who may have the power to dock my pay for today will know not to do so. Ahem.) Dallas and I managed to sleep from 7 to 10 AM. Then I got up and showered and ran back to the grocery store to replenish our supplies of Immodium, toilet paper, Gaterade, and soup. I didn't get my boyfriend anything for Valentine's day, after all. Instead, I texted him and told him not to come over for dinner, after all. He was going to cook for us, but I didn't want him to end up sick.
It was funny that I got an impromptu day off today, because I'd already finished the writing I had to do, so I didn't have much to do at all but look after my kid. And laundry. And cooking dinner. (And I did write a little, anyway, of course, while Dallas slept. There's always stuff you can write, if you're trying to make extra money.) Whatever he had, passed. Thank God.
It was weird: Watching your kid be sick is such a sucky feeling. You feel so effing helpless. But, at the same time, you know how to deal with it, even if you haven't had to deal with so much of it in years. I was glad I could be there for Dallas and take care of him. More than that, though, I'm glad he's not puking anymore.
Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. 9:23 PM # (12) comments
Tuesday, February 13, 2007Now that I've scared everyone away...
It's time to talk about good things.
1. We finally saw Little Miss Sunshine and, oh my god, it was one of the funniest, awesomest movies I've ever seen in my life. I bet all of you saw it already, but if you haven't, then you totally should.
2. This past weekend, my bf and I saw Notes on a Scandal at the local indie/artsy/whatever-y theater. First, I should tell y'all that I liked it very much. But second, I have to make a confession, and it's that my boyfriend and I are weird and have bad manners. I mean, apparently. We went to the artsy theater, like I said, and we enjoyed the movie, like I said, and so we laughed aloud at certain parts. And we gasped aloud at certain parts. And we were the only ones doing so, and, after a while, it seemed to be getting on the other six audience members' nerves. (Especially when my boyfriend leaned over to me and loudly whispered, "Oh my god, that is so fucked up!") But, oh well. I'm sorry we were into the movie and y'all weren't, you guys.
Again, you should go see that movie. Especially if you've ever been in one of those "friendships" where your "friend" is psycho and secretly hates you, even while being clingy and pretending to love you (and especially if they mix it up by touching you inappropriately, too). If you've ever been in one of those, Notes on a Scandal will be like an awesome horror movie custom-made just for you.
3. I can't believe I'd never in my life seen Houston's Byzantine Fresco Chapel until this past Saturday. We went, and it was very beautiful. Not huge, not action-movie exciting, but just very peaceful and serene and gorgeously made. Rather like the Menil Collection, itself. If you haven't gone yet, you should totally, totally go. The pics on that site don't do it justice. Houston is seriously lucky to have had the de Menil family living here, making awesome stuff for us to look at on weekends for free. 4:15 PM # (8) comments
Sunday, February 11, 2007It's my turn to do the rant that every other blogger has already done.
Here are some new guidelines for reading this blog:
1. Don't read this blog and then email me your advice. Seriously, I don't want it. If I did want it, I would specifically ask for it, in very clear terms.
2. Don't read this blog and then send me your opinions on what I'm doing with my life. Again: if I wanted your approval or disapproval, I'd ask for it. But I never will, because there are plenty of people in my real life who are standing in line, waiting to give their opinions first.
I've written this thing for almost ten years now, if you can believe that. As the years go by, I find there are fewer and fewer topics I can talk about. I can never talk about my work, for instance.
Usually, I prefer not to talk about my kids, because I don't want psychos commenting on them... but also, mostly, because I know that saying anything about the way I raise my kids will attract busybodies who want to tell me that their way is better.
I never talk about what I'm writing until after it's sold. Otherwise, it's just talking shit, you know? Or asking for stuff to get jinxed.
I learned a long time ago that I can talk about my marriage and subsequent divorce, but only if I want certain assholes to whine to me about it, or if I want to get comments from pathetic second wives who want to vent their anger against their husband's first wives. So I only talk about the ex's bullshit (or lack of child support payments) when I'm angry enough about it to make it worth hearing and dispatching that crap.
I learned a few years later that I can't talk about my "romantic" life on this blog, either. God forbid, right? I realized that if I let on in any way that I have a sex life, someone was going to freak out about it and send me annoying emails. Apparently, I'm supposed to pretend that I've had three kids but never have sex, because, otherwise, some self-appointed mommy I never knew I had is going to become shocked and offended and inquisitive about every single detail. "Why would you do such a thing on a first date, Gwen?" and "That doesn't sound very ladylike, Gwen," and "Watch out, Gwen--I think that man wants to have sex with you!" Or, even better, some asshole will appoint himself guardian over my ex-husband's interests and send me ominous bullshit: "I bet your ex would be interested to know how you're whoring around when the kids are away."
And I'm not ashamed of anything I do, but god DAMN, those emails got annoying, and I decided to stop talking about my romantic life and let those people bother the prostitute and stripper bloggers, instead.
I am never going to blog about my mild enjoyment of John Mayer's music again, either, because apparently, John Mayer date raped or impregnated or stood up one out of every four twenty-something women who read this blog. So, never again. I am so sorry I ever said I liked that Mothers/Daughters/Whatevers song, which was such a massive trigger alert for so many people out there. Forgive me.
I am never, ever, EVER going to talk about my weight again. I swear, I never will.
I don't think it matters whether I'm happy with my weight or not, you know? I could tell you guys that I hate myself for being fat, and that I try really hard not to mention it, but that sometimes, I'm compelled.
Or, I could tell you guys that I'm mostly very happy. I have an awesome family and a fabulous boyfriend, and a successful career and a new house and new car that I love, and several very funny/smart/trustworthy friends. And that, despite my weight, I actually like the way I look, and that I know other people who do, too, and that I'm pretty sure I could find someone to have sex with if the need arose, but that even if I couldn't, I would still find a way to be happy, because other people's opinions don't change my opinion of myself and everything I've accomplished. But that, once in a while, I'll be dissatisfied with my weight and, like every other human being on earth, I'll get a little down about it. And I'll share my frustration with that feeling. Or not. Whatever. Maybe I'll just talk about my weight on this blog once in a while because I can't think of anything else to talk about, and I want you guys to know that I'm a normal person and not some bitch who brags about herself all the time. You know?
But, either way--no matter which of the two paragraphs above this one is the true one--it doesn't matter. If I say one word about my weight, people are going to come out of the woodwork, sending me unprecedented amounts of email. Telling me--no, scolding me--about what I need to do to lose it. Congratulating me for "finally" deciding to fix what they apparently consider the biggest problem in my life.
Give me a fucking break.
You people sending me advice and backhanded compliments? You don't know me. All you know is what you read here. You have no idea what I'm like in real life. In my real life, I avoid people like you, who are obsessed with other women's looks and weight and sex lives. In my real life, I surround myself with people who only care about art, fun, and making money. Do you see? I am not the woman on TV begging for a makeover so that I can attract the attention of a man who will buy me a big diamond ring. I'm not the woman standing by the water cooler, talking about how much I hate myself, or sharing glee over another woman's weight gain with all the other self-haters.
(And, by the way, I'm not talking about the people who answered the question "What do you do to lose weight?" that I posed a while back. Many of my regular readers shared their experiences and knowledge with me, and I appreciate y'all very much. I'm talking about people who obviously don't read the blog often or don't read it carefully, but skim over an entry about my weight (probably in the middle of a web search on weight loss) and then feel free to dump all their own hating/self-hating weight issues all over me via email.)
Don't write to me anymore. I don't care what you think. And, please, if you're going to send unsolicited advice to strangers on the Web, don't act like you want to help me have a better life. Again, you don't know anything about my life, so why are you so sure that copying your life would make mine better? Go to MeFi or Yahoo Answers and spread your omnipotent, life-changing, catty-ass wisdom over there, okay?
And, I didn't think I'd have to say this, here in the year 2007, but...
If you don't like me or my writing, then just
Okay. I feel better now.
Actually, I've changed my mind. I'm not going to stop writing about my weight, or any other thing I feel like venting/whining/bitching about.
But, be forewarned. If you're a stranger to me, and you send me unsolicited advice, I'm either going to delete it or, if you catch me in the wrong mood, tell you exactly how rude and annoying you're being.
And, you know what? That goes for people who aren't strangers to me, too.
Labels: venting8:40 PM # (0) comments
Sunday, February 04, 2007Sunday Night Post
Friday night I did a reading for Inprint's First Friday series, and it came out pretty well. I had a good time, at any rate.
I have to say, at this point, that I'm very lucky to have a lot of friends who are willing to support me in these sorts of endeavors. I have friends who, even when I tell them, "Oh, y'all don't have to show up at this one," will show up, anyway. And for that, I love them. Thanks to everyone who went, everyone who ate dinner with me beforehand, everyone who kept me from losing my purse or my chapbooks, and everyone who helped me celebrate at the end of the night (and let me crash at their place after that). I love y'all.
One of my kids is freaking out a little because we got home from Austin just now and found a giant, weird bug in their bedroom. It's dead now, but he imagines that there might very well be another, lurking. Waiting. I told him if there was more than one, they probably would have come in together. He says no, they would have split up to cover more territory. I disagreed. If more than one came in together, it's because they were scared to come in alone. So why would they have split up?
Who knows, really? But I do know that whenever I see really weird bugs outside, they're alone. Really weird bugs are loners, I notice.
My boyfriend just showed up and disposed of the bug carcass. He said it was just a roach. A specialty roach, I guess. Now I, too, am scared that there's more than one of them around. I need to get this place exterminated. I never did, upon purchase.
I got a speeding ticket on the way home. Fuck you, Waller County.
Okay, that wasn't very nice. I take it back, because Waller County has a really good BBQ place and the people there are friendly. But still. I don't appreciate getting stopped for the same speed that everyone else does on that highway. Even if I was speeding like a maniac. Really, I do it every time. When you have to drive to Austin and back, every single first and third weekend of your life, you want it to be over with quickly. You don't want to dilly-dally at 65 mph. It's more than half my Sunday gone, as it is, so why wouldn't I try to save myself a half hour? I get about one speeding ticket per year, making that trip. With those odds, why wouldn't I speed? I have no one to blame but myself. But it still gets on my nerves.
I did some writing this morning, but have a lot left to do before tomorrow night. If I want to get a new book sold, I mean. People are waiting on me. But I don't have to do any writing at all... It's all up to me, if I want to write something to sell or not. But you know that I do, so I will. I'm gonna get it done. This blog entry is just a quick palate cleanser.
Yesterday I found out that something I always want to do (but never let myself do) is something about which my boyfriend has massive trauma. So we had a major discussion about adjusting our expectations of each other as far as this desire/trauma was concerned. I was louder, but he still won. We didn't do the desirous/traumatic thing. Next time the opportunity arises, I will do the thing by myself, without nagging.
(My friend Ashley said, "That was a big argument? It didn't last very long." No, it didn't. They never do, which is a very good thing, and part of the reason I love him so much.)
Meanwhile, I've been studying a certain "disability," because it's something that one of my kids has, and it's finally gotten to the point that I have to formally inform this new school district of the fact, instead of expecting the adults who work in it to understand and tolerate the difference on their own.
This sounds cagey as hell, I know. But I've been trying to decide how much of this I want to talk about on this web site. Obviously, I've never felt the need to talk about it before today. But now I'm starting to think that I might have been taking the wrong approach. There's a time to keep things private, for certain. But then, there's also a time to speak up about difference and add your voice to the ones who are already asking (shouting, now) for acceptance. You know? I don't want to be a crusader, especially over someone else's personal life. But I see now that there are people who need my help accepting difference. They need me to stand up and say, "I can accept this and even value it (and I wasn't even required by the state to go to a conference and learn about it). Therefore, you can accept it, too. Just try." And maybe, other people who already accept and value this difference will read my words and share their acceptance and experience with me, and that will help me feel stronger. You know?
But I'm pretty effing strong as it is, and that's all I'm ready to say for now. I might not even say anything else.
What if I just said, "Hey, everybody out there - why don't you try tolerating some difference this week? Just try it and see how it goes. You might be surprised."
Even better, what if I just said, "To everyone who tolerates difference: Y'all rock. Thank you for being alive."
Maybe I don't say that often enough.
Back to work. Talk to y'all later. 8:38 PM # (6) comments