Gwen's blog

The Latest

Guess what. I'm gonna be on Road Trip Nation! Thanks to the Unknown Reader who recommended my blog to her friend Camilla. Unknown Reader, I enjoyed meeting your friend!

Sneak preview of upcoming novel.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008
bus story 1

It’s always cold on the bus. For that reason, I kind of hate riding it in the mornings, especially when I’m wearing a skirt without hose or tights or leg warmers, as is sometimes mandated by fashion in the summer time. But everyone has their crosses to bear, right?

This morning I got on the bus without hose or tights or legwarmers, and it was very cold. I put my iPod (my Sony Walkman iPod) into my ears and hugged myself into as compact a shape as possible.

The bus starts filling up, and this guy gets on. He’s a small guy, ethnic origin somewhere on the Eastern Hemisphere. He sits by me, and I take care not to sigh or jut out my elbow or even look at him, because I hate it when I’m forced to sit by someone else on the bus, and that someone else makes it clear that they’re annoyed and that they’d been wishing that their $3 fare would have somehow paid for two seats. I mean, I get annoyed when strangers sit next to me, too, and I wish my $3 bought me a force shield from strangers, too. But that’s not the way Metro works, is it?

So I’m sitting there, trying to be polite and only feeling a little bit sorry for myself, when I realize that the guy sitting next to me is hot. Not attractive-hot, but temperature hot. He’s radiating heat like a furnace. I peeked at him as much as manners would allow, but he didn’t seem to be feverish or on fire. He was just radiating heat, somehow. Like, from the inside.

I decided, then, that he must have been a demon. Either that or an elemental, but most likely a demon, because I don’t imagine elementals looking like people or wanting to ride the bus. I glanced again and saw that he was reading a text full of arcane-sounding words. (Cold fusion? HP 3200?) That seemed to confirm his supernatural nature.

I turned my face away from the demon man and, for a split second, felt uncomfortable. Then, I felt good. I felt warm. I’d been cold before, but this demon dude was literally generating enough heat to make up for the fact that I had no pantyhose on under my sandals and knee-length skirt. It felt nice, like a cozy fire.

I wondered, then, what it meant to take comfort from a demon. Was it safe? Was I unintentionally giving away my soul?

Really, there was nothing to fear. In every story I’ve ever heard on the subject, demons can’t possess your soul unless you give them verbal permission. And you have to invite them onto your premises, in the first place. Right? I’d invited this demon nowhere, as we were sitting in a public place. I hadn’t said anything to him at all. As long as I kept my Sony Walkman iPod in my ears and minded my own business, I could warm myself with the demon fire and keep my soul and its first serial rights. He wasn’t even a big demon, anyway. I didn’t think he could carry me if he wanted to.

The warmth made me sleepy and I drifted through dreams as pawn shops and Adult Video Stores sped by. “Is this,” I wondered, “how it starts? Can people get possessed in their sleep? Is demon heat a roofie?”

But we made it downtown okay. Someone rang the bell and, like zombies awoken, several of the passengers stood up and stumbled out into the sunlight as filtered by skyscrapers. The demon got up to let me pass and didn’t even spare me a glance.

I didn’t realize why until now, after typing all this. I’ve already been marked by someone else. My soul is the property of Corporate America.

intro to bus stories 2, 3, and 4

So I recently bought myself an MP3 player as a reward for a job well done. (What job is that, you ask? The job that is being myself.) And, now that I have one, I see that there's a secret world I've been missing out on but am now a part of.

Before I had an MP3 player, I didn't want to know anything about them, because I hate window shopping. You know? I don't want to hear about stuff I can't afford, in general. But then they got cheap, so I decided to get one, so I did my research and picked the one with the most battery life.

(Also, I waited to get one because I just had no use for one before. But now that I have a job where we're allowed to listen to them (and where our laptops have no soundcards), and now that I ride the bus instead of driving my van and listening to my own CDs...)

Before I had an MP3 player, I ignored people who had them. I purposely spaced out when people talked about them. But not anymore.

Now, when I ride the bus, I notice who's listening to music and who's not. And I notice that other people notice it, too.

bus story 2

The other day, I was on the bus and I busted out my [Sony Walkman] iPod (which I will call an ipod from now on, because screw Corporate America and their branding. kleenexes! xeroxing!! orange and lemon cokes!!!).

I turned on my music and went to the place where I go to when my music's on. It's a place in my mind, and it's a combination night club, costume party, trip abroad, and Houston's Galleria mall.

So I was there, and I don't know if it showed on my face or what, but the guy sitting across from me smiled at me.

Not in a creepy way, but in a sort of empathetic yet wistful way. Like he could tell that I was happy, and he was glad for me, and yet he maybe wished he had an ipod, too.

He seemed like a nice guy, actually. But I didn't smile back. I just blinked at him and then looked away.

I don't smile at strange men. Especially not on the bus.

bus story 3

Right after that, the angry-looking man next to the nice-looking man gave us both a glare. Really, he just gave a long, long glare that encompassed us, all the other passengers, and everything else on earth.

Then, the angry-looking man looked at my ear buds. Then, he took some earbuds out of his pocket and attached them to his phone.

I don't know if y'all know this, but a lot of newer phones are also ipods now. Seriously. They are.

The angry-looking guy turned on his phone ipod, and then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I hoped that his music made him feel better. I wondered what song he was listening to, but there was no way I could ask.

bus story 4

Today I rode the bus home and I listened to my ipod. Of course. Across from me, an older woman sat there with white ear buds in her own ears. And she kept glancing at me.

"What is this woman looking at?" I thought. But that question didn't make me as angry as it used to, because I had my ipod on and it's hard to get angry when I'm in my music place.

The woman glanced and glanced, and then, when I had to adjust my volume, I pulled my ipod out of my bra, out of the neck of my shirt, and did so. And then the woman kept looking, but her look became very thoughtful. I thought that maybe she was noting my clever idea of going hands-free with the use of my bra. She was maybe thinking, "Wow. It fits in there so well. I wouldn't have even guessed she had an ipod in her bra."

Then, the woman lifted her own ipod from her lap. It was a real iPod, and it had a leather case with an apple on it and everything. When she lifted it and opened the case, she glanced at me again.

I couldn't help but suspect that she wanted me to notice her. I suspected that she'd just gotten that new ipod, maybe for a gift or maybe she went right into the apple store and bought it for herself, for a job well done.

She flicked at the buttons and I wondered how many songs she had. I wondered which ones were her favorites.

She glanced at me again. I smiled at her and then I closed my eyes.

moral of the story

If we were in Japan, our ipods would send out signals to each other, and we'd know when we were near another person who likes the same songs that we do.

But we're not in Japan. So all we can do is imagine, and then empathize.

Right?

Labels: , , , , , , ,

 

7:22 PM #
(11) comments

Thursday, July 24, 2008

girl clothes

It's good for women who care about their image to be friends with women who also care about their image and who have a similar taste level.

Because you know how shallow people ask if women dress for men or for other women? I dress for myself, but having a female peer inspires me to greater heights in that regard.

Hence, I bought the silver sandals.

actually learning at a training thing

At my job today, my dept was forced to take a time management seminar. Basically, it was punishment for the actions of one or two disorganized people. I was super, duper annoyed with the situation, because I had a lot of work to get done today and I'm normally very efficient at work, but it's hard to be efficient when you're taking a four hour course about time management.

So I went in as a hostile witness, basically. I was determined to learn nothing. I admit it.

But then, of course, I did learn a little. I learned tips for managing my personal time, and also several things about myself. Here they are:

1. I manage my time super efficiently at work.
2. I don't manage my time as well at home.
3. I have a Type A personality, relatively, for a girl.
4. My job takes up too much of my time now.
5. Instead of trying to help people by trying to figure out the answers to questions I don't already know, I should totally send them to the person who knows and save us both the time.
6. I would probably make a benevolent dictator of a manager.
7. I hate the word veggies a lot and need to add it to my list of words and phrases that annoy the living shit out of me, such as comfy, hubby, baby bump, sweet spot, and tongue bath.*

You want to know the tip they taught me that's going to help my personal life? You make a Master List. You put on it all the stuff that you have to do in the conceivable future. (I already do that, but here's the key:)

Then you use that to make Daily Lists each day. You only fill the Daily Lists with stuff you really need to do that day, or stuff you could reasonably accomplish in one day.

See, the Master List is to clear your mind. The Daily List is the real to-do list.

See? Up til now, I've been making periodic, mile-long Master Lists and then getting disheartened when they take more than a week to finish. But this way, you don't put unrealistic pressure on yourself to complete everything in an unrealistic time frame. You see??

Maybe you already knew that. Maybe you took the same seminar. I'm pretty sure one of my friends has taken it, because she talks about "eating [her] veggies" at work (meaning, getting least pleasant tasks out of the way) and

R-R-RE-E-E-E-E-ETCH

Sorry. I really hate that word.

The older I get,

the more I like to hang around with secure and successful people. I especially like to talk to super successful people and ask them nosy questions about their lives. The most successful ones are always willing to tell you everything, I find. I think they get lonely, successful people. I think they don't often meet people who want to know what they really do and who'll understand the answers. Because, unfortunately, a lot of people are insecure haters. Insecure haters don't seek to understand -- they just make assumptions and then hate.

You know what I mean?

Like, you'll meet a rich real estate guy, and people will say, "Oh, he's just rich because he's a sell-out" or "because he's good looking" or "because he plays the race card" or "because he kisses ass."

But then, if you walk up to that guy and say, "So how'd you make your money?" he will straight-up tell you, "I heard that the Indians wanted in on our hotel market, but they didn't know our business culture well enough to approach it yet. So I researched their culture and then offered my services as a liaison for a decent-sized cut."

And you're like, "Sweet."

Because how can you hate on somebody for being smart/successful/awesome, unless you're just someone who hates anyone who's doing better than you?

You can't. Come on. Seriously.

something else I learned today

If you are my fan, then you like what I create. You might think that means that you like me, but you could be wrong. Because you don't really know me. You might assume that you'd like me, then see or read something that makes you realize that you really, really don't. And it's okay if you only like what I make and not who I am. That happens to me all the time... I like music made by people who are assholes.

If you are my friend, then you like who I am. Because you know me in real life, so to speak.

I guess it's okay if you're my friend and you don't like what I create. I guess.

I talk/think about that with my arty friends sometimes, actually -- what it means if we like each other, but not each others' work.

I think I need to have both kinds of people in my life. Not "fans," per se, with all those connotations... but people who like me, and also people who like my work, whether or not those groups overlap very much.

It's bed time now.

I'm sad/pissed/resigned because I wanted to play World of Warcraft for a little bit, but, instead, I spent an hour and fifteen minutes on the phone with AT&T and then with Yahoo, trying to get my remote DVR function straight.

And now I'm gonna go to bed, then wake up and go back to work and work my butt off. And... I like my new job a lot, actually, but I don't like that it feels like I'm always there now. (Or else always in my van or on the bus, on the way there or on the way back.) I feel like my free time can't live up to my hopes anymore, and like my life is rushing by, week by week.

Then again, tomorrow is Jeans Day. Yay! Jeans Day!

That's all, for real.

I'm not going to play WoW. I'm going to bed. Seriously.

Talk to y'all later. I have more to tell you, but it's time for bed.

* Typing those made me grind my teeth.

Labels: , , ,

 

10:48 PM #
(12) comments

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Don't be mad.

Sorry I've been the worst blog updater in the world lately. But you know how it goes. Blah blah excuses go here.

Important Stuff

I got some awesome sandals on sale at TJ Maxx today. I ate some awesome Indian food. The cats are doing good, but won't stop date-raping each other.

Books!

I read The Yoko-something Officers' Club, by Sarah Bird, and enjoyed it.

I read The Bostonians, by Henry James, and it totally upset and traumatized me, until finally it led to understanding of my own young life.

I read Maurice, by E. M. Forster, and it made me feel sorry for Victorian gays and for Victorian peeps in general, because they never had sex, and it messed with their minds.

I read a bunch of cookbooks, even though I don't like to cook.

Suburban Woe

I accidentally burned up all the grass on my front lawn, with fertilizer, and finally ended up replacing it with sod. It took a long time, because St. Augustine sod is hard to find in Houston this time of year. Apparently.

So I bought all this new grass, which looked half dead, and now I have to water the living hell out of it every single day. Just like my neighbors, who don't even have new grass. I bought a new kind of sprinkler, too. It hasn't rained at all lately.

So then, yesterday, they started warning us that there might be a hurricane or, as British people pronounce it on NPR, hurrakin.

And my first thought was, "Oh, hell yes. Please let there be a hurracane."

And the news was like, "Jesus Christ! Fill up your gas tanks now! Governor Perry is readying the school bus fleet in San Antonio!"

Then I talked to some neighbors and coworkers, and they were like, "I kind of hope we have a hurricane so I can quit watering my lawn."

And I was like, "Me, too!"

Before the Lousiana/Mississippi tragedy, we were never afraid of hurracanes in Houston. They happen in the waters near here pretty often, and as long as the ground isn't saturated beforehand, nothing really happens.

But I'm glad we have disaster plans in place now. Better safe than sorry.

But I hope we get a few thunderstorms, at least. We really need some rain right now. I hope it's not a sin to say so.

Movies!

We saw The Dark Knight and it scared me, to imagine people being so evil and crazy.

I hate crazy people, lately. If you're crazy and you're reading this, don't mess with me. Don't talk to me. Stop leaving me comments. Got it?

We saw Wall-E, and it was beautiful. I saw it twice, actually. Tears ran down my face the whole time, both times.

You either saw that one already, and you believe me, or else you haven't seen it and you don't. It's okay. I understand that some people categorically hate Disney, or hate animated movies, or hate leftist conspiracies to make conservatives feel guilty. (Or whatever.) But if you saw Wall-E and liked it, then I'm glad for you. Write to me privately and tell me what your favorite part was. If you want.

That's all for now.

I need to get off the computer and go work out. I'm in the mood to work out! Y'all wish me luck setting up Dance Dance Revolution, without my kids here to help me. My kids are all with their dad for the moment. That means I can't play console games or even watch TV, pretty much, because I don't know all the wires and controllers like they do. Feel sorry for me, y'all. Wish me luck figuring it out.

But mostly, send my grass vibes, okay? Send it "grow well soon" vibes. And wish for us to get a lot of rain, but not enough to hurt anyone.

Love,
Gwen

Labels: , , ,

 

8:06 PM #
(13) comments

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Linkelodeon!

From Ashley: The New Republic interprets Barrack Obama through his writing. I was surprised to find them compare Obama to Henry James, with whom I am lately semi-obsessed.

Also from Ashley: The NY Times profiles Rush Limbaugh and almost makes me pity him, but then, not. Which is what they're good at doing, I've noticed: Showing you the hate-able-ness, then showing a little that's empathy-worthy, then coming on full strength with more evidence of hate-ability. Love it.

From Marq: This artist makes plastic bags into inflatable animals that only appear when the subway rolls under the grates that they're tied to.

Christina Ricca Cat disapproves.

Benny Bennassi feat. The Bravery

Weird-ass Benny Benassi remix of "California Dreamin'".

I found the two above when trying to find my favorite Bravery song for you guys and for my friend Brie, and then finally I found my favorite Bravery song, but only in one of those homemade videos that people make (inexplicably to me) with anime characters. Why do people make those? Someone please explain.

Whoa. There is a web site dedicated to making anime music videos, and they hold contests and everything.

From Mike: Italian Spiderman.

Meta links!

This post I wrote in 2005 has become a repository for complaints by and about Kroger employees, as you will note in its comments.

It replaces, in my heart, this post I wrote in 2004 that became a touchstone for people searching for the Mervyn's online survey.

The most-read post of the past two months is the one about my cats having sex on my bed. I wanted to find the most-read posts ever, but my stats won't tell me that.

Here are the web searches that most often lead people to my site:
"topless bar"
"dress patterns"
"reggie aqui gay"
"boobsquad gwen"
"jehovas witness"
"kroger sucks"
"women of telemundo"
"is reggie aqui gay"
"gwen bitter asian men"
"hairstyles for fat women"
"emo acronym"
"club adventure"
"reggie aqui gay?"
"blt party"

I don't mind when people criticize my blog, but it bothers me a little when they misread it.

Dear SmugWatch Dude:
I do not do yoga. Please be less assumptive in your smugness watchdogging.
Thank you.

Labels:

 

12:26 AM #
(13) comments

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

recent dream themes, for Ashley's eyes only

(And for whoever else can stand to read them or who likes to interpret dreams.)

1. Again and always with the dreams that I'm tricked into living with and/or marrying my ex-husband. KHAN! Last time I had a really involved one, in which I'd won a "dream" wedding from Sears/Macy's. When I showed up to participate in it -- a little late, a little tipsy, feeling celebratory -- I found that the department store had misplaced my wedding gown and wanted to offer me a shitty Miss Texas sheath, instead. By the time I got that ironed out with a late-night shoplifting trip at a nearby costume shop and a run-in with the local Mafia, I was getting worried that it was too late to marry my fiance on Sears/Macy's' dime.

And then I arrive and see that the groom is my ex-husband. And the preacher is preaching, and I feel like it's rude, at that point, to interrupt the ceremony and call off the wedding. And yet I'm determined to do it. And then I wake up.

Annoying-o-freaking-rama, as you can imagine. This dream is obviously about my annoyance with my never-ending forced involvement with that person, which always occurs against my wishes.

2. I always, always dream about monster fruit plants. Usually I dream that there are monster fruit stalks growing in my dad's backyard, or next door to his house, and I'm trying to cultivate or harvest them, but people keep interrupting me and no one seems to value the fruit like I do.

But lately I've dreamed that I'm trying to purchase monster fruit plants on sale from various places. The weirdest thing about it, as I already told you on the phone, Ashley, is that, in the dream, I never realize how unusually freaky the fruit plants are. In the dream, they're just valuable/awesome/beautiful/desired. When I wake up, though, I realize that they were kind of monstrous. They're like corn stalks covered with bunches and bunches of giant plums that are stuck together like testicles. Or, like, giant brocolli stalks covered with giant, blood red, tumorous peaches. They are fruit plants to be feared, but not when I'm dreaming them. In my dream, they're something to covet and acquire.

I don't know if they mean money or artistic acheivement. Maybe both.

3. I used to always dream that I was trying to ride the Metro bus somewhere, and I got on the wrong bus or couldn't find the right bus stop, and it was getting later and I was getting into more dangerous parts of town...

But lately those dreams have shifted into something else. I ride the Metro bus and get off downtown, before it can carry me somewhere wrong. Because I know that, downtown, I can transfer to the exact right route. So I'm downtown, trying to figure out where to get the right bus, and I try to take a shortcut by going through one of the big buildings that I used to work in or used to walk through when I was a teenager.

And then it turns into some thing where I'm screwing around on the elevators. I don't know why. Sometimes I need to get on the elevator because it's one of those buildings where the ground is uneven and can be on G or 1 or P, depending on what side of the block you're facing. But usually it seems that I want to be wicked and nosy and ride up the elevator to see what I can see. Maybe even to steal something. And then, eventually, the elevators take us someplace weird or scary, like a boiler room. But I don't care. It kind of thrills me and I keep riding. And the other riders, even though they're dressed in business casual and I'm not, don't question my right to be there. Sometimes they even follow me, as if I know what I'm doing.

I don't know what this dream means. Maybe that I feel like I don't belong in Corporate America, but I'm doing well there, anyway?

4. Sometimes I dream about stealing the purses of rich old ladies. Their purses are always ugly, but I steal them. And then I feel guilty. But also excited. The goal in those dreams is always to stop someplace safe so I can open the purses and see what I reeled in. But I never do get to stop, and usually I lose the purses while on the run.

I know this dream says something bad about me, like maybe I resent rich people and have a chip on my shoulder and covet other people's stuff.

5. Three or four times now, I've dreamed that we visited New York. Usually it's by accident, maybe because Houston's Metro bus took us there without us noticing. Once we get there, we want to make the best of it and have fun, but we don't know where to go, and the natives aren't helpful. Or else we're afraid to ask them because we assume they won't be helpful, because I read Gawker and Overheard in New York all the time, and they give me the impresssion that native New Yorkers are assholes who take pleasure in being rude to tourists.

So we end up driving/riding/walking around the city, finding our own fun. In one dream we shopped in Chinatown at night. In one we found a carnival in the middle of Manhattan. In the last one, I walked through a Lithuanian apartment complex and looked into everyone's dining room.

This dream says that I crave adventure but don't have the means to get it on a grand scale, maybe.

the cats, good and bad

I like it when the cats lie near me like curved slugs, with their arms and legs tucked under them.

I don't like it when Starbuck scratches the glass patio door because she wants to go outside. Like all cats, she only wants to be outside if we leave the door hanging open so she can come back in at will. But then flies get in. So she can only go out if we close the door behind her. So she only stays out for a few minutes, then scratches at the door so we can open it. Then, of course, as all cat owners can guess, she's back at the door thirty seconds later, scratching to get out.

And the sound of her claws on the glass is very, very, VERY annoying. So I yell at her to stop. But she seems to think that me wanting her to stop is only a very temporary condition. So she goes back to the scratching again and again, until I take more drastic action.

And that is not one of the highlights of having cats as pets.

Equal opportunity: I don't like it when Toby acts possessive over me. Sometimes it's funny, but then sometimes he gets all testosterone-y about it and I have to remind him that I'm a human being and not his conquest, and I have to throw him off my bed or whatever. And then he gets pissy and takes it out on Starbuck. Which is probably why she always wants to go outside all the time?

I just realized that my cats might be living in a Sartre-esque hell of my making. But oh, well. It's better than living at the county shelter, I'm sure.

the photo thing

I feel like I've said this before, but need to say it again and will do so as simply and directly as I can.

1. I only put pictures of myself online if I think I look good in them. So, if there's a picture of me on this site or on my Flickr, even if it's not a stereotypically "good" picture, one can rest assured that I like the way I look in that picture. "I'm Gwendolyn Zepeda, and I approve this photo." Like that. Usually, I only want to share a photo because I like the way it looks.

2. But it's hard to say that. It's hard to say, "Hey, y'all, I think I look awesome in this photo. Check it out. Check out this awesome picture, the subject of which happens to be me-e-e-e!" So, I don't. I skip that part and talk about the more modest other part, like "This is how much I weigh" or "This is an old t-shirt I wear" or "This is a new hair color for me."

3. And then I always manage to come off like I dislike the way I look, or like I need reassurance. And then people (very nice people) are quick to reassure me and tell me that I look nice/pretty/good/decent.

4. And then I feel guilty and gauche, like I was fishing for compliments. When I wasn't. Wanting to share a nice picture isn't the same as fishing for compliments, is it? I don't think it is. Not for me, at any rate.

5. And then I bury the picture under a lot of other pictures or posts, because I am embarrassed.

Does all that make me crazy? No, I know: It means I over-analyze the shit out of my motivations and the impression I'm making on others.

But that's okay.

In related news: There's this person in my life who makes me a little nervous because she's always commenting on things that I say or do. Like telling me to relax or telling me that it seems like I worry too much. And, when this person does that, it makes me way less relaxed than I'd normally be. And I don't think this person does it to be annoying -- I think this person does it because that's normally what people want to hear from this person. And, finally, the other day, I had to tell this person that I liked myself the way I was, and that the way I was totally worked for me and made me a success. And this person accepted that, and I was relieved.

There are two people in my life, actually, who are always telling me to chill out and to act more confident and not to let on that I feel worried or insecure...
And I'm starting to think that these two people, who seem super confident and secure, actually aren't. And that they're telling me all this in order to remind themselves.

But I'm okay, really. I swear to God, if I didn't like myself and have self-confidence and feel secure, I wouldn't be able to talk about myself so much on the Internet, would I? Not for eleven years, I couldn't. Really, it takes all the false modesty I can muster to keep you guys from realizing how conceited I really am.

Think about it.

Don't worry about me, people who worry. I'm happy.

the other day

I played Rock Band with my son and his friends who'd come over for a slumber party. I played because no one else wanted to sing, and they needed a singer for extra points. "Want me to sing?" I said.

"Your mom sings on Rock Band?" one of the friends asked my son Josh.

"Uh, yeah. My mom's, like, a trained singer," said my son Dallas. But not in an "I'm so proud of my mom" way. It was more like "Duh -- why wouldn't a grown-up who knows how to sing, sing on Rock Band?"

So we played, and it was fun because we stopped being mom and sons and friends of sons, and became a force. A team. A rock band. We had three rotating drummers who I assigned to songs according to their skill level. Aside from that, there was almost no talking. As the evident band leader, I reminded myself to praise each member after particularly difficult songs. But that was it. And we racked up some serious points. And I felt the same feeling I have when my coworkers and I get through a really tough project. (We unlocked "Enter Sandman" by Metallica, and that's my very best song. I'm going to sing that next time I go to a karaoke bar.)

I went to bed at 2 AM. The next morning, we woke up and went outside and saw one of my neighbors walking over from across the street. "I'm so tired," she said. "We stayed up all night playing Rock Band."

I'm telling you, man. The families that Rock together stay together.

I had a lot more to tell y'all but it's night now and I can't stay focused well at night. I'm really only worth anything (besides Rock Band) in the mornings. So hopefully I'll wake up early tomorrow and get some novel-writing done...

Y'all have a good night, okay? Y'all have good dreams.

Labels: , , ,

 

9:59 PM #
(4) comments

Sunday, July 06, 2008

I love to spend money, because I am American.

Not even going to lie or feel ashamed: I am a straight-up consumerist. It makes me happy to spend money on random stuff that I probably don't need. It makes me feel secure. Rich, even. Even if some of the people working at Neiman Marcus don't agree. Today we went to the Galleria (frou frou Houston mall) and I bought a bunch of cheap jewelry and a cheap purse. Yesterday we went to Harwin (Houston wholesale district) and I bought... well, a bunch of cheap jewelry and a purse. Yes. Actually, Harwin was extra awesome because I ventured past the usual stores (Trendy Jewelry, called simply Trendy by those in the know, and the purse store with the drawings of purses all over it, and the Korean grocery store), and found a tiny store in the corner of a shopping center that had real Indian stuff. And I got an Indian beaded purse, plus several fabulous cheap Indian bracelets. Even a gold bangle with red beads, even though I never wear gold and hardly wear red. I love Indian stuff. But then, after that, we went to an Indian restaurant and I took my bracelet off, because I didn't want people to think that I was some kind of Caucasian person with an Indian culture fetish. (Because everyone knows that I have an Asian culture fetish, instead. Hello.)

I'll still pass judgement on other consumerists, though.

My boyfriend's sister got him a Coach belt for his birthday, but it was too big. So he drove us to the nearest outlet mall so we could switch the belt for something else.

When the newest local outlet mall first opened, there was a line outside the Coach store. Why? I don't know. I mean, I'm guessing it's because Coach is the newest expensive thing that poor people can almost kind of afford, right?

We went to the Coach store to return the belt, and there wasn't a line to get in, but the store was super crowded and had a snaky, cordonned line for the registers. I stood in line while my boyfriend searched for something to switch the belt for. All around me, poor girls stood in line to spend their week's paycheck on a monogrammed Coach bag.

Remember back in the '80s, when Coach didn't make monogrammed bags? When they only made bags in solid neutral leather, and their catalogs proclaimed how well made they were? And gold diggers asked for Gucci and ridiculed old women who carried Coach?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Dooney and Burke, and everything with a D&B on it was valuable as gold, no matter how freaking ugly it was?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Polo? With Tommy Hilfiger? With a bunch of brands that don't even exist anymore, but which were always emblazoned with logos or names?

I wished I could interview the poor people shopping at Coach and ask them what they were trying to buy. Do they literally believe that owning a Coach bag makes them look un-poor? Or maybe even negates their poorness?

I'm the same kind of snob my dad is. When we were children and we asked for clothing with branding or logos on it -- like, say, a Pepsi cap or a California Raisins t-shirt, my dad would say, "I'm not going to buy you a shirt that advertises someone else's product. Why should you pay to advertise for someone else? They should pay you, if they want you to wear that."

I absorbed that lesson and others, and now I'd rather go nude than wear something with a big, giant logo, or monograms splattered all over.

Also, I'd rather be poor again than be desperate to pretend I'm someone else.

I wish everyone was stronger and less concerned with bullshit. I mean, buy yourself crap -- I always do -- but buy it because you like it and not because you think someone else will respect you more if you shell out a certain amount of money. You know?

I don't know who I'm talking to, here. Those little kids at the Coach store don't read my blog, I'm pretty sure. :)

Labels: ,

 

7:35 PM #
(17) comments
shifted over to photo-blogging for a sec

Sometimes I'm in the mood to show y'all stuff instead of telling y'all stuff, and sometimes pictures are worth at least a paragraph or two.

See the empanadas I just destroyed, the fetish-y shoes I found at Ross, and exactly how fat/thin I am now.

Know that I'm reading all your comments and agreeing with them/ being educated with them/ appreciating them/ loving them. I just haven't had time to comment back lately.

(It's one thing when you have a job that you learn to do very well in the first year, and your boss refuses to promote you because you're just a silly girl and not a good old boy in a suit, and so you spend 4 years working for 2 hours per day and then goofing off online for the other 6 hours, every week day of your life. However, it's a whole other thing when you have a demanding job with a boss who respects you and people who appreciate your abilities. On the one hand, I no longer have as much time to respond to each of your comments. On the other hand, I no longer feel like calling in sick every other day for no reason at all. :) )

Labels: , , ,

 

6:41 PM #
(2) comments