Gwen's Petty, Judgmental, Evil Thoughts

2008-05-06T21:35:00.004-05:00

I want you to notice/ when I'm not around/ I wish I was special/ You're so very special...

Was feeling the compulsion to apologize again for sparse posting, but I know it's Spring in more places now, and people flock outdoors in Spring, away from the Internet. So let's neither of us feel bad.

We got the Rock Band game, and it is awesome. My voice is hoarse every night now. I try to play drums when our drummer wants to sing, and I'm getting almost competent at it.

In other family consumerism news: One of my kids is having a birthday, and I think we're gonna buy him a bike. Yay! Bikes for children! Either a bike or Heelies.

In other family activity news: You know what we do all the time here at home? We play badminton. We tear those shuttlecocks up.

Well, that's about it. Lately I go to work and work my brains out. I go to work, and everybody's like, "Check with Fixed Accounts on the makewhole fund distribution annuity 457(b)(c)(d)(g). Call the VPRMGPD and ask for the TPA on the PC and the AC/DC." And then I show up and they say, "Oh, hey, Gwen. We need you to run into that big room over there. Take this print-out, your pen, and a notepad."

And I go, "What, now? Aren't there, like, actuaries in there?"

And they go, "Yeah, but just run in. We'll be right behind you."

And I go, "I don't know. I'm kind of scared."

And they go, "Well, while you're running in, just yell out your name."

I go, "What?"

They go, "Yell out 'GWENDOLY-Y-Y-Y-YN... ZEPE-E-E-EDA!'"

Me: "What?!"

Them: "Like, for instance, if your name was Leroy Jenkins, you'd yell LEE-EE-EE-EEROY... JEN-N-N-NKINS! Get it?"

Me: "Uh... Okay." I push open the door. I start running. "GWENDOLY-Y-Y-YN! ZEPE-E-E-EDA!"

Inside, there are dragons. And dragon eggs. And giant knights in fiery armor. And actuaries! And fund selections! And 401(k)(b)(j)s!!

I pull out my pen and slash away! Fire and numbers get all over me and I die!

But then, like in every other game, I'm resurrected right after that. Again and again.

And I will level up.

I will see this job pwned.

2008-05-01T20:56:00.008-05:00

today

Today I got off the commuting bus and then, a block away, saw that my local/city bus was already pulling up at the stop. So I started to run.

As I ran, I saw the last person in line step onto the bus, then step backwards off of it again. It was a man. He was holding several bags.

I ran closer. It was a homeless man. He wore a brown coat, as many homeless people do. His arms were outstretched. In his right hand, he held a very full plaid shopping bag. He also held a small brown gift-bag-like bags from Starbucks. And one in his left hand, too. Both packed full of something.

The Starbucks bags were dripping something that looked like milk.

The man was explaining something, loudly, to the bus driver. I couldn't understand him, though. His voice was very garbly. The bus driver didn't seem to listen.

I stepped carefully around the milk-dripping homeless guy and got on the bus. As I took my seat, I saw a young woman talking to the homeless guy. Handing him something. Sort of scolding him, maybe, in a good-natured way.

The bus pulled away, and I rode to work.

Homeless Man vis-a-vis Starbucks, Part Deux

A few months ago I had to meet a lawyer at a Starbucks downtown. Outside this particular Starbucks, a homeless man sat and leered at everyone. He leered at me as I neared the entrance.

"Can you spare..." he said.

"No cash," I said. It was true. I never have cash.

"How about something to eat?" he said. His tone was less than pleasant.

"What, a pastry?" I said. I don't know why I said that. I guess because he didn't seem like the pastry-eating type, and the surprised question just spilled out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"Yeah," he said.

Inside the Starbucks, as I waited in line, I looked at all the pastries and thought of two questions:
1. What kind of pastry did the homeless man want?
2. Did he really expect me to buy him a pastry?

No, I'm not being honest. There were way more questions than that:
3. I didn't actually agree to buy him one, did I?
4. Why do I feel obligated, here?
5. Why should I buy something for someone who doesn't even ask nicely?
6. Is that the kind of philanthropist I am -- the kind who needs people to ask nicely or otherwise make a show of appreciation?
7. Is there anything wrong with being that kind of philanthropist?
8. He didn't even seem like he really wanted food, did he?
9. Didn't he look hungover, in fact?

Then, a single thought: "Screw that guy."

Honestly, I was kind of scared of him. He intimidated me, the way he leered and growled. He was bigger than me, not elderly, and hungover-looking.

I didn't buy him anything. I left the Starbucks kind of defiantly -- kind of daring him to say shit to me.

He didn't.

Homeless Person vs Starbucks

During the same visit to the same Starbucks, amidst the events related above:

I was waiting for my latte. All around me, lawyers and their clients and court clerks lounged. A homeless woman ambled in. She walked in small circles near the pastry display, looking at everything from the corners of her eyes.

"Ma'am," said the Sbux employee handing me my latte, "you know you're not supposed to be in here." She was young, this employee. She seemed to regret having to tell the homeless woman that, and she said it as respectfully as anyone could have.

The homeless woman looked at her and practically spat these words: "I have money this time. I'm a customer!"

But her voice was so smoke-worn, it was barely intelligible. She walked around grumbling, then darted to the end of the long, long customer line.

The Sbux employee made a face of confusion and maybe some fear. She glanced over her shoulder at the other employees. I clarified for her, "She said she has money."

"Oh," said the Sbux employee. "Well... excuse me, then."

We traded smiles, but rueful ones.

I wonder what kind of pastry the homeless woman bought.

2008-04-28T19:47:00.002-05:00

first day on new job

I'm so tired, I can't even do or say anything. But I wanted to say that things are going well.

My kids' book got a good review from Kirkus. Check the May 1 issue. Yay...!

I have about 1.3 million things to do, and the cats need more food.

The End.

No... more later.

2008-04-22T13:29:00.002-05:00

Remember the song they played at the end of Fast Times at Ridgemont High? The one that goes "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!"?

I'm getting sort of high from working so hard. See, I want to do as much work as I can before I leave this job, and it's sort of the same feeling as writing something on deadline. Adrenaline kicks in. That song from Fast Times runs through your head.

Is it weird that I have integrity and a work ethic? Some people seem to think so.
1) People keep telling me, "I guess you're not even coming on Thursday, huh?" Thursday is my last day. Of course I'm coming in.
2) No one's come to talk to me about how much stuff I should try to get done before I leave. Or to ask what I'm leaving behind for them to do.
3) Whenever I call or email someone to say, "I did most of Project X. All you have to do is wait for Joe Blow to send you the widgets," they act surprised. "Oh... I didn't expect you to finish that."

That's how this place has been for the past five years, though. They mainly leave me to my own devices, as far as workflow is concerned. I guess I should take it as a compliment -- I would've heard something from them if I wasn't working fast enough.

So... If I were someone else, I might be tempted to totally slack off during my last week. But, instead, I am me, and therefore I'm getting a sick thrill from watching my cube get cleaner and cleaner as my Outbox stacks up.

I get two goodbye lunches now. One formal, one casual. The formal one is being combined with Administrative Professionals or, as We Call Them, Secretaries' Day. The casual one is being combined with Thursday. I might have a drink at that one. Then, I take a day off. (Which I will spend writing. And I'm not just saying that in case my editor is reading this.) Then, I have a weekend. Then, Monday I start my new job.

I kind of thought I should've taken a week off in between, to process, debrief, achieve closure, whatever, after this 5-year stint. But I'm broke, so I won't. I'll just bust butt at the new job, and that will serve those purposes.

Goodbye, expiring job. I am non-renewing you.

That's an insurance joke, for all my P&C Peeps. Funny, isn't it? No, it's not. Oh, well. Goodbye, Insurance Broking. You've been good to me. Thanks.

Status Checks

How is everyone? Say your answer in your mind. Okay, got it. Now, here's how everyone near me has been:

Toby: Still irrationally afraid; still fighting/playing/sexing with Starbuck.

Starbuck: Still aspires to Mutual of Omaha level hunter prowess; still fighting/playing/sexing with Toby.

My dentist/future brother-in-law: Looking good. Most of his lesions/bumps/dots have gone away. He's chipper and determined to carry out several missions with the rest of his life. Almost dying will do that to you, I guess. It'll get you geared up and doubly ambitious for the future.

My boyfriend: Still engaged to me. Still the best boyfriend on earth. Thinking hard about where we're going to live when we get married. (Latest ETA: Two years from now.)

My middle son: Still living with his dad. But he says he's happy, so I'm happy for him.

My other two kids: Still living with me and leveling up on all the games. I'm thinking of putting my oldest son in driving school. Why? So he can have a license, in case one of his video games breaks down and he needs to go somewhere. Just kidding. Okay, that's all I can say about them. I would tell you stuff about the oldest one lifting weights and walking around sans shirt all the time, but I don't want to say too much.

My dad: Still pretending he's going to retire soon. Growing his beard bigger in preparation. We told him to please stop doing that, but you know how old people are. All hard-headed and stuff. They don't listen.

Me: I'm happy. I'm good.

Houston Metro sucks.

I'm not going to get all into it, as I swore I'd do while driving down the freeway yesterday morning, having been unable to take my park-n-ride bus to work. I'm not going to type all the words I screamed in my head, throughout the hour-long drive.

Instead, I'll just ask a question. What's the point of making all Metro riders buy Q Cards, and spending money telling everyone how convenient Q cards are, if new riders will be unable to refill said Q Cards in the machines provided for that purpose at their park-and-ride stations?

Hmm? Hint: Having a gentleman in Metro uniform tell me, "Did you buy your card at the gas station or grocery store? Yeah, those never work in that machine. You should've bought your card downtown," doesn't help.

Extra hint: When I call you, Metro operator, and ask you that question about the Q Cards and their inconvenience, you saying, "Okay, we'll send a technician out to look at that machine," is not the answer.

The apparent answer: Go back in a time machine and somehow know all the secret workings of the Q Cards, which are not the same workings posted on the signs all over the damned buses and park-and-rides.

Okay. Whatever. I know that made no sense -- it's hard to talk sensibly about infuriating, illogical things. Eff you, Metro. The end.

Let's end on a happy note.

If I can find 30 cents somewhere around me, I'm going to buy a Diet Coke. That'll be nice.

2008-04-15T20:46:00.004-05:00

News!

You guys, I landed a new day job. Just gave two week's notice. This new job is more applicable to my skill set, too. Long-time readers will remember that, for the last five years, I've been working in the lucrative Puppy Wedding Arrangement industry. (Not to be confused with the Dog Wedding Planner industry, which is slightly less lucrative.)

Now I get to use my writing skills, and be a Dog Catering Menu Writer. As everyone in Houston knows, dog catering encompasses way more opportunity than dog weddings. I'm going to have to get a different kind of license. But it'll be worth it.

In other words, I'm not planning on talking about this job in great detail, either.

Cat Porn News

Yesterday I came home from work dead tired and decided to doze a little bit on my bed. No sooner had I closed my eyes, then Toby and Starbuck began trying to get it on. Silently, this time, but still.

"You guys. No," I said weakly. They jumped off the mattress and slunk away.

I don't know why they have to do it while I'm in the room. They have all day alone, practically. Maybe they're exhibitionists. Maybe they aspire to be porn stars. Cat porn stars.

Starbuck's porn name is Kitty Delite. Toby's is Johnny Frisco. That's what they told me. Now I'm supposed to find them an agent. That's what they said.

Not much else to say at the moment.

It seems like, the more I accomplish in real life, the less I have to tell y'all on this blog. :)

More later, then. Y'all take it easy.

2008-04-10T06:12:00.000-05:00

Now I have to go back and delete everything cute I've ever said about my cats. And maybe get them baptized.

Starbuck (girl cat) customarily sleeps at the foot of my bed. There's a little patch of cat hair there to prove it. But I don't mind because she's really good about keeping out of the way of my feet, and she stays quiet.

Toby (new boy cat) did mind, though. Every night, almost, he's been coming into the bedroom and whining at Starbuck. He wanted her to go with him into the living room with him. He wanted to play. Sometimes, he'd even jump up on the bed and get all up in her Kool-Aid, meowing in her face. Then they'd fight. Then I'd kick them out of the room.

That was a semi-regular occurrence, until last night.

Last night, I woke up to the sound of Toby quietly yowling. I opened my eyes and looked down at the foot of the bed. There were Toby and Starbuck...

[If you have kids reading, cover their eyes now.]

...having cat sex on my bed. Trying to have cat sex, I should say. They're both fixed. But that didn't stop them from enjoying themselves last night. I swear, I opened my eyes and it was like a freaking porn set, right there in front of me. Toby was like, "Starbuck, baby, you're so hot..." Starbuck was like, "Oh, yeah, Toby, give it to me! Pretend you're not neutered and give it to me right!"

"You dirty little cats!" I yelled, and I pushed them off the bed with my foot. Prudish, I know, but I couldn't help it. I was still half asleep and therefore susceptible to old Catholic learnings.

And now there's an opportunity for, oh, so many punchlines:

1. "I learned it by watching you, Mom!" said Starbuck.

2. "I thought this was where we were supposed to do it," said Toby.

3. "Genitally mutilated cats need love, too!" said Starbuck.

4. "Don't look at us like that! We are not a monster!" said Toby.

5. "It's spring time!" said Starbuck.

6. "Don't be jealous, baby -- it didn't mean anything!" said Toby.

7. "Don't worry -- we're both fixed!" said Starbuck.

8. "Isn't this why you hired me?" said Toby.

9. "Quit staring, you pervert!" said Starbuck.

And... yeah. It could go on and on. Because I'm trying to make light of the situation, here. Because I am so completely traumatized. Oh my gosh. I mean, yes, I did hope that Toby and Starbuck would fall in love. But platonically! In a cute, innocent way! Like those Precious Moments figurines! You know?

Wait, what? Those Precious Moments figurines...? Oh god, no.

Next episode: Shot gun cat wedding at my house. Because, as Marge Simpson knows, you can't have your pets living in sin.

2008-04-07T12:02:00.002-05:00

Talking with Artists about Art

Something's in the air around me lately such that I keep finding myself talking with artists about problems and issues related to the actual act of doing art. Over the past month, I've thought about the particular concerns that come up when you collaborate with another artist on a long-term basis. I've commiserated with others over the different kinds of artist friends you can have. (Those you can count on to do work and to support your work, and those you can only count on for drinks, basically.) I've talked with a lot of people about the need to promote one's art and how that differs/detracts from creating it. The two main art-related subjects I focus on, habitually, are art for profit vs art for art's sake, and finding inspiration vs forcing yourself to work.

While talking about this stuff with other people, I began thinking about famous dead artists and what we know about their work habits. Do we know anything? I haven't read any biographies on famous dead artists lately, but nothing in popular culture comes to mind. I know that Van Gogh cut off his ear, but I don't know if/how he used caffeine while working. I know that Dali was obsessed with breasts and fruit-picking devices, but I don't know if he ever said, "Don't invite that jerk Man Ray to exhibit with us. He's always late and he never chips in for wine and cheese."

I read most of Stephen King's memoir and wished he'd talked more about his cocaine use. How could he write, while addicted to coke? How did he physically, mentally do it? How'd he do it before he used drugs? What did he think of his contemporaries? When he played in that rock band with Dave Barry and his other writer friends, did switching mediums inspire them to write more, or was it just a necessary break? I don't know. Doesn't say. Maybe I need to go to the library.

There are live, not even so famous artists I admire a lot, and I always want to ask them intrusive questions about their creative processes, but I refrain. I know that kind of stuff is hard to talk about, and there might not be that big a market for it, anyway. It's just shop talk, maybe, only interesting those in the industry. Guess I should say, then, that I'm greatful to the artists I know, for their willingness to talk shop with me. Because otherwise I'd be lonely. (Lonelier.) :)

My Least Accomplished Accessory

I've never been one for wearing belts. That began, most likely, because I grew up poor, and belts aren't really accessories that poor women buy. They don't buy belts, scarves, or trouser socks, I don't think. Instead, they buy costume jewelry, cheap bags, and knee highs, because those things give you more look for the money.

So then, I became un-poor, but also fat. And fat women don't wear a lot of belts because the only ones that fit are the ones at Lane Bryant, and those aren't very exciting.

So... This story sounds like I'm trying to get sympathy, but I'm not. I'm just telling y'all that, for one reason and another, I've never really worn belts, and therefore I don't feel comfortable accessorizing with them.

And now I'm not poor, and I'm less fat, and I subscribe to Lucky magazine. And, as all of you who read Lucky know, women are supposed to wear belts with every single outfit they own. You have to wear a pair of pants with a dress on top of it, then a cardigan wrapped over the dress, then a belt tied around the whole thing. Or, you can just wear a dress by itself... as long as you wear it with a belt. Or you can put the cardigan with your jeans, as long as you have a leather or canvas belt in plain sight on top of that. Or you can wear panties and a bra and a big, thick neutral belt. Or you can be naked, with a thin, metallic double belt.

You see what I'm saying? You're supposed to wear belts.

Not that I follow Lucky's advice. I don't -- especially not as far as layering and color matching are concerned. I don't know how it is in New York City, but here in Houston, we can't get away with wearing dresses on top of other dresses, one in yellow and one in maroon. That's, like, against our laws. It's too hot for that many haphazard layers. Also, we're still working the Three Color Rule here, as far as I can see. "Don't be wearing more than three colors at once," that is. Some people count neutrals with that, some liberal people don't.

See what I'm saying? I'm not about to go overboard and buy anything that Lucky calls luxe, lush, or louche. But I do feel the need to buy belts lately, and I do wish I knew which belts went with what. Because the black suede number with the star-shaped rhinestone buckle? That I got from Torrid four years ago? I don't think that works with anything in my closet anymore, and it's too big now, anyway.

That's all for now, y'all. Talk to y'all later. I'm gonna go Google "belts" now. Either that, or I'll actually go back to my office and do some work.

2008-04-06T20:05:00.002-05:00

I love it when a plan comes together.

We spent the weekend being inspired, then searching for supplies, then crafting up some art. That is to say, we custom illustrated shoes for my kid.

If you'd asked me on Friday what my weekend plans were, I wouldn't have said "doing art." But I'm glad we did. It was fun, and I feel like it helped me with my writing, too. Because, of course, I wrote. I have a deadline, did I mention?

Rory's is the pair you're seeing on Flickr. Josh is working on his own pair, and I want to do a pair of my own, but haven't got past the idea-deciding-on stage yet.

I got good news.

Recently found out that I won a Houston Arts Alliance fellowship. Yays! I love Houston Arts Alliance (formerly CACHH) for existing. I've worked with those people and, as shocking as it sounds, they actually believe that artists deserve to get rewarded for doing art.

More later. Good people, y'all send me good vibes for tomorrow and the rest of this week, okay? Hopefully, I'll have more good news to report soon.

2008-04-01T00:07:00.002-05:00

I rode the bus today.

Finally got it together to commute via bus this morning, and I'm glad I did. It was an adventure. I had all these plans regarding books and notebooks and laptops, but when I got on the bus, it was dark and the seats were too close to allow for any kind of make-shift workspace. It filled up quick. I kept my bag crowding the seat next to me until a string of ladies came through. (A trick I learned back in junior high, last time I rode the bus on a daily basis. Keep your bag there 'til all the men go by. Don't give up your adjacent seat to a man without a fight.)

A lady sat next to me. We didn't make eye contact, even though our elbows had to touch. The minute the bus took off into the dark, she, sitting straight upright like a cat, closed her eyes and slept, paws tucked down in her lap. She smelled like something particular, like maybe something my third-grade teacher used to wear. I looked out the window. I like to look out the window whenever other people drive, because usually I drive and therefore I can't. It sounds stupid to enjoy looking at, say, the marquee on the Luby's, to see what specials they had for lunch. But I read the specials and enjoyed it. I looked into lit offices at Wells Fargo. I peered at the paint cans and broken scaffolding behind warehouses lined up along the freeway. People at the next park-n-ride, one guy bouncing to his headphones and presenting the only happy face. David Addickes' giant president-head sculptures facing us from one of our oldest, most run-down neighborhoods, and miraculously free of graffiti.

I got off the commuter bus and ran one block to my transfer stop. Wasn't sure which corner to stand on. Went back and forth like a chicken getting to the other side... no, the other side... Gave up and called Metro, then saw my bus and had to do a mid-street U-turn and sprint back to the proper stop. I had on heels but the kinds made for "juniors" -- thick training heels with rubber soles. Good thing I sometimes have childish tastes. Good thing I'm dressed a little like a school kid today. Got on the second bus. There were actual school kids on it, dour in stained uniforms. I looked at the direction they came from and wanted to offer them part of my lunch. Because, not to make assumptions, but I was pretty sure they hadn't had breakfast. Because only some kids have to take the city bus to school, and they form a big Venn overlap with the kids who don't eat breakfast (can't, not won't, because breakfast isn't there, not because they turned up their noses at the Pop Tart or Go Gurt flavor of the day). And, um, I used to be one of those kids. So I knew. But there was no way to offer them food, of course, because... you know. There simply is no way. I couldn't even smile encouragingly at them. Those are the rules. They got off at another stop, to wait some more, and I felt even sadder. They had to ride two buses to school, and I only ever had to ride one.

The bus driver passed some guy's stop -- I don't know if by accident or purposely. The guy only fumed where the rest of us could see him, and I immediately pegged him as a hobbyist victim, because how hard would it have been to stand up and walk forward, to say, "Next stop." You can't just ring the bell and then sit there waiting on other people to take charge of your life, you know. I mean, you can, but then there's no use complaining, in that case. Why would the bus driver want to take care of you, if you don't even want to take care of yourself?

And then we got to work, and I ran ran ran across the carpetting and potted plants and parqueted elevators and conspicuously clean windows...

and I'm glad I took the bus. I'm going to make a habit of it, if I can.

Tedium Uncovers Your Natural Potential

I like it when someone at work tells me, "Hey, you're a writer, so..." because that means I might get a chance to work to my potential. My boss said, "You're a writer. Could you maybe write, or edit, or just summarize..." and I said, "Yes, yes, yes."

You know how I know -- how I've been sure for a while -- that I'm a writer?

1. I read it in Bird by Bird, and then again in The Artist's Way.

2. Whenever we had a boring block of time in school, I'd use that time to write. Sometimes I'd draw cartoons, too, but usually I'd write. Long, long notes to Dorothy or Letty or my boyfriend of the moment, describing the boredom of the moment plus everything else in my line of sight. What had happened the day before -- soft focus on the bad parts, laser detail on the parts I could control. Girls I hated, in copious detail, and why. Teachers and my distorted perceptions of their lives. Every intimate detail of our teachers, who were our celebrities, in a strange inverted way. "Courteney guessed that Ms Tucker would wear the blue flowered dress today, and she was right. Michelle hates her accent. She's from A-a-a-albany. No wonder she doesn't have a husband. I feel sorry for her -- I should do my homework today."

What do you do when there's a long stretch of time, when you're held prisoner by the tedium? Do you write? Then you're a writer. Do you draw? Then you're an artist. Do you practice posing? Then you're an actor or a lip-syncher-to-be. Do you imagine having sex with everyone in the room? Then you're an executive in a private firm. (Heh. Just kidding... Everyone thinks of sex when they're bored. Unless you don't, and then you're destined to write non-fiction about your non-sex-life that will humiliate your spouse.)

What do you do? That's what you are.

My dentist almost died.

A few weeks ago, my dentist had a severe allergic reaction to medication that came very close to killing him. His body tried to purge the allergen by ejecting his skin, piece by piece. Thank God the hospital stopped it in time. Because I love my dentist, and I don't want him to die.

My dentist happens to be my future brother-in-law, but that's not why I love him. I love him because he's a good dentist and a charitable person, but an undercover one -- he hates spewing affection or gushy feelings. He shows those things by: 1) throwing money at you or, 2) bitching at you in a long, roundabout way. (Like, "You dummy, you shouldn't have bought a car without calling me first. I bet your interest rate is sky-high" means, "I care about you and I'm always willing to help you have what I consider the best life.")

So. Usually, when I see my dentist, we multitask. He drills my teeth, but also lectures his brother through me, and thereby shows his love. He spends a lot of money on my teeth, doesn't charge me, and doesn't let me thank him, and so I feel the affection, too. I understand the way he operates. He says, "I like being a dentist because people can't talk when I'm working on their mouths. And I want to be the one to talk. Open wider. Bite this. Now I talk and you listen." And I do listen. It's the least I can do.

So... This time, it would have been the same as usual, except that my dentist recently almost died. So... He had a lot more to say than he normally would. He had a lot more people to bitch at/about, including me. He had to hurry up and say everything, bitch at everybody, loud and fast, before I left. Or before he lost the chance, before something might happen again and this time he might not be so lucky. "You're going to be family now," he kept saying, "so you need to know..."

He talked loud and fast and I listened, listened, listened. And I was glad he didn't die, but sorry he went through the scariness of almost dying... But glad that he had the opportunity to talk, and that I knew how to listen. I wanted to say, "Any time, brother."

But I couldn't, because there was a drill in my mouth. But I think -- I hope -- he knew what I was thinking.

Next time I see him, I'll give him something expensive and then bitch at him when he tries to thank me. Then he'll know. :)

2008-03-25T19:25:00.003-05:00

The Big, Good Snowball

You guys, I have been so overwhelmed with good stuff lately, and I'm trying to do the extra bit of work it takes to make the good luck snowball. You know? I'm growing my snowy ball of goodness, as they say. (Well, no one says that. But you know.)

Twitter Changes You

So...

I'll admit it now. I've been cheating on y'all with Twitter.com. That means that, instead of taking time to write a thoughtful, or at least thought-filled blog entry, I fill up my Twitter page with 140-character blurbs that only a few select people can see. And now that I'm in the habit of doing that, it seems like there's nothing that can't be expressed in 140 characters, and therefore I have no right to blog anymore. Kind of like people used to feel about haikus, back in the day, in feudal Japan. Maybe. Maybe, right? People started talking to each other in haiku only, and quit having so much to talk about, outside of the falling of the leaves and the koi fish in the water? No? Okay, pretend I didn't say that, then.

The other thing, though, is that I've gotten into the habit of repressing the details of my Real Life here. And then, on Twitter, I'm lulled into this sense of safety, wherein I can post stuff like, "I just put a blue sock on my foot and thought about murdering my coworker." For example, I mean. Not that I actually thought that, because I love all my coworkers to death. But you get what I'm saying, right?

I have to go now, but

here is something I started to write for y'all the other day, real quick, about Gong Li, before I opened up the Internet and realized that Gong Li is a world unto herself and doesn't need the likes of me trying to encapsulate any one facet of her life into blog words, whether 140 characters or more or less:

The Curse of Gong Li

Every time I see a movie with Gong Li in it, no matter how awesome Gong Li's character looks or how well her life starts out, she ends up dying and/or going crazy and/or being miserable in the end.

And then it makes me think about how, even though she's freaking awesome, Gong Li has only gotten crappy roles in US movies. Miami Vice. Hannibal Rising. Second banana (who ends up crazy/miserable) in Memoirs of a Geisha. She admits it's because she can't speak English well enough. I feel bad for her. I mean, I'd be sad as hell if I had to learn Chinese in order to further my career.

I looked her up online today and found out that famed director Zhang Yimou was sleeping with her when he cast her in her most famous role. Cheating on his wife with her, actually. She broke up with him and then he didn't put her in his movies anymore.

Sad. Old-Hollywood-glamor-style sad, right?

2008-03-23T19:46:00.006-05:00

How I Spent My Spring Break Vacation

I ate too much, exercised too much, slept too much, spent too much, and didn't work enough. So, you know, it was awesome.

My kids got back from their dad's today. Before they did, we hid three dozen candy-filled eggs and set up a new badminton set in the back yard. Hot dogs for dinner. Fun, fun, fun.

How Starbuck Spent Her Spring Break Vacation

She went into the backyard several times, under adult supervision. Once there, she explored and practiced climbing the pear tree.

Once, Tad caught a lizard and set it down in front of her. She immediately picked it up with her mouth and carried it into the house. "Oh, no!" the lizard said.

"A new toy, with batteries!" Starbuck said. She dropped the lizard in the living room and batted him between her paws a bit. He ran away and she turned round and round looking for him, stepping on his head with her back paw in the process.

I yelled for Tad to please remove the lizard from my house, before his tail fell off and became another lizard or whatever.

Slightly bruised but still quite alive, the lizard went back to our patio furniture, where he hits on female lizards to this day.

How Toby Spent His Spring Break Vacation

When he wasn't eating, Toby hid under the bed. No, that's not true. Sometimes, he came out to be petted on my bed, and then he sat on my head a couple of times. He tried to get petted on the couch, but being out in public in the daytime was just too frightening.

That's about all I can tell y'all now. Except for the following:

I want to write more, but I can't get my mind straight. I do have at least 3 things to tell y'all, the first of which is my thoughts on Gong Li. But I have to prepare myself mentally before that can happen. I have to get back into the routine. Maybe tomorrow.

I'm thinking about taking the bus to work every day, at least until gas gets cheaper again. My calculations say that it'll save me about $80 a month. It would save more if it didn't cost three damned dollars to ride our park-n-ride. How sad, that $6 per day would still save me money.

My boyfriend (fiance) took half the week off so he could vacation with me, a little, and he's so sad about having to return to work tomorrow. I don't want to go back, either, but he really is kind of depressed about it. Poor guy.

The other day, he and I went on what was supposed to be a 3 mile walk at a local park. (Teresa B, you know which one.) And, instead, we got totally lost on the trails and ended up walking 8 miles. It was brutal. My butt still hurts. And yet I don't think that excursion negated all the calories we ate this week, unfortunately. Oh, well.

I got all my hair cut off a couple of weekends ago. I think I told y'all that, right? I didn't go to my regular stylist for that one because, gosh forgive me, but I didn't think she'd understand what kind of look I was going for. So I went to [chain salon that's supposed to be all awesome], and my hair came out cute but sort of uneven. You know?

So then, a few days ago, I went back to my regular stylist to get some new highlights. And she saw my hair, and I told her what happened, and she was like, "Let me just fix the ends for you."

But she said it like, "Let me just prove to you that you should've come to me, instead." And then she totally re-cut my hair, y'all! And then she razored it until I was like, "Um, it's okay if I don't look like Victoria Beckham." And then she straightened it, like she loves to do, and it did come out super cute... but then I tried to get a photo of it at home, to show y'all, and the photo made me look like a lazy-eyed Liza Minelli. (Sometimes I look like that, at certain angles. Can't help it.)

And... I don't know. I'll upload a picture if I get a cute one. Or maybe I'll just break down and upload the weird picture. Or maybe I'll finally realize that it's not that big a deal, either way, and that people's lives can continue without constantly updated pictures of my hair.

We went to Katy Mills Mall, and someone there had a sign that said, "Happy Easter and Holy Week Sale." And I thought that was weird, that they mentioned Holy Week like that. I mean, I get that suburban retailers in Texas sometimes get good results from pandering to Christians. But... Holy Week? What is that, like, "OMG, y'all, I got the cutest jeans on sale on the anniversary of the day that Jesus was crucified!"? I don't know, man.

We saw a chick get handcuffed for shoplifting at that mall, too. She got arrested on Good Friday, y'all. Saddest part? The store she stole from had a sign that said, "Nothing over $8.98." I'm guessing she stole from Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten line, because she simply didn't consider it cheap enough.

Okay, that's all. More later. Hope y'all had good Easters, or at least good Easter candies, or at least found nice things to buy or steal sometime around the time that some people commemorate some kind of thing.

2008-03-12T15:34:00.000-05:00

linkelodeon!

Project Runway's Jay is super candid, and that's why I love him.

If you don't know who Julia Allison is, it'll be hard for me to explain this, but I'll try. She's a Star editor and supposed dating columnist, yeah, and a person Jakob Lodowick dated, and someone they can't stop ridiculing on Gawker. But mainly she's a woman who blogs about herself constantly (with photos). So... someone brilliant wrote a blog about her blog.

Dr. Bukkake gives facials. As far as we can tell, this is not a joke. If you don't get the joke, that's probably for the best. (What can I say? I'm not very ladylike.)

This woman does pretty things.

subcategorized linkelodeon, with tangents, form of: Asperger's Syndrome!

As mentioned before, every time I see a fictional character who I suspect suffers from Aspergers (whether the person portraying that character realizes it or not), I google [character's name] + "aspergers" to see if anyone else thought so, too.

Last week we watched the best-of-Chris-Farley ep of SNL, and it occurred to me that Chris's talk show interviewer character has AS. Here's a transcript of one of those skits. So, I thought maybe Chris was unwittingly imitating someone with Aspergers when he played that popular character. So I googled.

Instead, I found out that Dan Ackroyd was diagnosed with AS as a teenager.

"People Speculated to Have Been Autistic." Is this my Asperger's obsession? No. My boyfriend says mine is pulling dandelions, because it takes effort for me to pass one without removing it from the ground, preferably with root intact. I say, "That's not Asperger's -- that's a valuable service to the community." *

My Aspie son's current obsession: found numbers. Meaning numbers he "finds" on digital clocks and license plates. He talks to me about that for a good fifteen minutes per week. I just listen, and sometimes ask wry questions, but I don't try to discourage him. I don't think there's any wrong with an obsession that hurts no one.

Shirley Dent says "Don't diagnose fictional characters." Oops. Sorry, Shirley. No, wait -- apology retracted. I'll diagnose whichever characters I want. I'll look for stories in which people (autistics, lesbians, latinos, bulimics, cutters, Kinsey Temperament Sorter Margaret Thatchers, crochet enthusiasts, inverted narcissists, and even people just like me) might exist as whatever I need them to be. Including the protagonists, the heroes, and the most empathetic characters in the story.

Let a person pay his $15 for a book and then diagnose (empathize, mis-identify, fantasize) away. Because people are compelled to do this whether they've studied revisionist literary criticism or not. Readers need to be able to identify with mainstream fictional characters. Isn't that one of the basic reasons that art exists?(Personally, I don't see Austen's Darcy as an Aspie. But, hey, wouldn't it be nice if someone wrote a really awesome book in which my son was the romantic hero of the century? Of course.)

Aspergers and Xena, Warrior Princess and Albert Einstein and Jar Jar Binks. And sex.

* I was gonna put in a disclaimer, clarifying for new readers that this was a joke because I've never been diagnosed with AS, but that my son has. FYI. But then I thought, "Why?"

2008-03-09T21:03:00.003-05:00

status update

1. I cut off my hair. It's shorter than heck. Chin length with long bangs. I'm glad. I'm getting too old for long hair, I think. My boyfriend doesn't think so, but he doesn't have to be a 36-year-old woman with three kids, a conservative job, and razored-to-hell long hair. So I cut it. I took in a picture of Number 6 from Battlestar Galactica, and they cut my hair, and now I look like a mom. But I am a mom, so I'm good. (I might go solid blonde next, though. Screw it -- it's only hair, right?)

2. Toby and Starbuck are inseparable now, just like I knew they eventually would be. I would tell y'all cute stories about them now, but Toby just got on my lap and he smells like vomit, so I'm not in the mood, all of a sudden. I swear: Toby is a dog, not a cat. He always needs a bath.

3. Finally got my signed copy of Rob's book, so I'm reading it in quick bursts while I ride in the car and etc. It's very good. It inspires at least one laugh or one lip tremble per page. He had a nice turn-out at his Houston reading, and he cracked us up, despite the not-quite-hilarious subject. Congratulations, Rob!

4. Uh... seems like I had at least five list items to tell y'all...
Oh, I'm getting ready to take a vacation. From my day job and my kids, for a week, coinciding with Spring Break. Guess what I'm gonna do on my vacation? Work my freaking ass off. I have a novel to finish.

5. Uh... Send me your email address if you want my publisher to send you a coupon for 20% my Growing Up with Tamales kids' book. If you're already on the mailing list, I've taken the liberty of putting you on that list. :) But they promised not to spam y'all with other stuff, so don't be sad.

That's it. More later. Busy, busy day tomorrow. Busy, busy life.

2008-03-03T12:03:00.001-06:00

I should have trusted my instincts.

I said that McDonald's wouldn't be able to compete with Starbucks, and I should have believed myself. But they sent me a coupon for a free "premium iced coffee," so I thought I'd give it a shot.

At McDonald's, iced coffee means pre-sweetened latte. The drive-through guy asked if I wanted hazelnut or vanilla. I said, "Can I get it with just Splenda?" He said, "Yeah. Hazelnut, vanilla, or regular?" I said regular, with two Splendas.

They gave me a latte with I-don't-know-what-kind of dairy product, obviously presweetened and then with two Splendas thrown on top. Annoying. Now I can resume my practice of avoiding McDonald's entirely, though.

Uncharitable thought of the day: I told my boyfriend, afterwards, that the McDonald's "premium iced coffees" are for people who can't afford Starbucks and don't know what espresso is, but want to pretend they're drinking it, too. I predicted that, soon, McD's drive-through customers will order like this, "Two Big Macs and two vanilla Starbuckses." And McDonald's will serve them that, and Starbucks' market dominance will be complete.

Yes, I know that Starbucks is for middle-class people who don't know what real espresso is. And that's okay -- I'm fine being that.

A sad, sad, sad, sad thing about my life.

A million years ago, when people were first going from "newsgroups" to "bulletin boards," I used to hang out on a bulletin board called Mediarama, hosted by writer Daniel Drennan. And I used to love the living shit out of Mediarama and most of its posters.

While at Mediarama, I began to create web content, myself. Then, one day, I left Mediarama. Since then, I've tried various online forums and even started my own, but never found anything as good, smart, or fun. And, before you say it, I'm more than willing to admit that it's me who's changed, and not the Internets.

"Forums" have become blog-comment threads, for the most part. All the names for things change, but it's all still people trying to hang out online, trying to find others they want to virtually get to know. Less and less frequently, I try to find an online hang-out. More and more frequently, I find myself bored with the repetitive interactions and personality types. And then I get disappointed. And then I sigh and feel sorry for myself.

The pattern I find lately, on boards that attract me, is that there's a good mix of straight guys, gay guys, and straight women, most of whom I assume are white -- maybe with a few non-white people clearly identified either by their names or constant reminders in their posts.

What always starts to turn me off (other than the possibly imaginary pressure to identify my ethnicity) is the way the straight chicks will fawn over the straight guys. Eventually, so many boards devolve into the female characters competing to sound sexy for the straight male characters. (Who knows what these people are in real life? Maybe they're all neutered cats and dogs.)

I don't know where other women like me go -- women who like to talk to men and maybe sometimes like to joke about sex, but who don't want to participate in a cyber-sex contest. And don't want to talk about lip gloss or DHs. (Dear Hubbies. Barf. Just typing that makes me feel ill.)

This is not a request for suggestions. Please don't tell me to visit your favorite forum, because I'm a very negative, judgmental person and therefore I won't like it. But tell me your favorite forum if you want, keeping in mind that I'll never visit it. Then it should be okay -- no expectations or awkward excuse-making.

something different to do

Recently I've tried doing my rush-hour commute with my car windows open. At first it scared me a little, then I felt self-conscious, then I was puzzled as to how to deal with men who took open windows as a social invitation.

But now I like it. I like the breeze and the sun, and driving unenclosed makes me feel more human (like a herd animal, maybe?) and therefore, overall, less susceptible to road rage. Try it if your weather permits, and if your traffic is slow enough to keep the wind from messing up your hair.

A Puppet Show

Prudencia is a weathered wooden puppet in a checkered smock, with tangled orange vines on its head.
Hortensia is a big clay puppet made up of purple balls.
Griseld is a wiry leaning puppet all swathed in olive drab.

Prudencia and Hortensia are bobbing around two pyramids of fruit.

Prudencia: What is this you say? You're taking three of my apples?
Hortensia: I say that you can have three oranges!
Prudencia: Did you say that you're taking three of my apples for Griseld?
Hortensia: Did you say that Griseld is taking your apples?
Both: Yes!

Hortensia bobs away. Prudencia does a monologue.

Prudencia: For too long has Griseld coveted my fruit. This is the last straw!

Griseld comes onstage with a single leaf.

Griseld: Prudencia, have you seen the Anderson file?
Prudencia: Oh, I'll teach you to covet, little monster!
Griseld: Uh, what?
Prudencia: Oh, I'll smile sweet, as sweet as the fruit you covet. But soon you shall know the bitterness at the heart of it!
Griseld: Um. Okay.

Curtain closes. Curtain opens. Griseld and Hortensia are standing near a pile of leaves and a single cube of glass.

Griseld: Prudencia, have you seen my Anderson file? Also, do you know who deleted our entire database.
Hortensia: No.
Griseld: Hmm. I guess I should ask Prudencia. You know, I don't think she likes me very much.
Hortensia: No! You're imagining that!
Griseld: She keeps saying weird things to me about peels and pith and paring knives. In a really creepy, passive-aggressive way, too.
Hortensia: Oh! That makes sense, then!
Griseld: What does?
Hortensia: The other day I told Prudencia that you wanted all her apples, and she said you had obviously been plotting against her from the start.
Griseld: What? Why did you say that? I don't want any of her apples!
Hortensia: You don't? Oh, well. Hey, can I have that leaf?

Griseld faces audience with tragicomic puppet expression.

Griseld: Jesus freaking Christ.

Curtain closes.

FIN.

2008-02-27T05:06:00.004-06:00

Kat Konversations
for Diane G.

Note: For the following kitty dialogue, the cats' non-verbal communications will be in italics, and their meowed words will be in normal font. Most of their conversation is non-verbal. Luckily for y'all, I can understand and translate their language.

I.

Toby and Starbuck have finally signed a treaty and declared my bedroom to be neutral territory. Starbuck has, therefore, resumed her nightly occupation of the foot of my bed. So I'm lying in bed, recovering from the work day with a sexy domestic magazine, and Starbuck sees her opportunity to spend quality time with me. She does this by jumping onto the bed and lying on top of the next magazine on my list, a foot away from me. Mmm... magazine bed...

ENTER TOBY.

Toby: Are you on the bed? Should I get on the bed? Are we on the bed? Can I get on the bed?
Me: Hey, Toby-binky. Hey, Toby Tonka Truck. Get on the bed.
Starbuck: Oh, jeez. Whatever.
Toby: Hi! Here I am!

Toby steps on my magazine, hits me in the face with his head. His butt is all up in Starbuck's face.

Toby: I have a special offer for you today! You may pet me! A lot!

Toby wedges his entire body between me and Starbuck, falls onto the magazine I'm reading, head butts me again.

Starbuck: WTF? Seriously, WHAT the HELL?
Toby: [Looking into my eyes.] I love you! Do you love me? I love you! You love me! We're a happy... Pet me, please!
Starbuck: Oh, hell no. Eff this.
Me: Starbuck... Wait! Starbuck, we love you, too!

Starbuck jumps off the bed as bitchily as non-verbally possible, and leaves the room. Toby lets out a happy sigh. I remove cat hair from my lip gloss.

II.

It's night. I turn off all the lights in the house and retire to my room. This evening, there happens to be a child in my bed. (Scary movie, potential bad dreams.) The other kid is in his own room, lights out. Lights out in my bedroom. Next thing I know, Starbuck has appeared at the foot of my bed. She is curled up, head down. Ready to sleep. I'm glad, because at first I was worried that Toby was making her nocturnal again. But no. Here she is, and everything's quiet. I roll up in the piece of the blanket my child has allotted me, and close my eyes.

Fifteen minutes of silence. Then, the sound of cat claws clicking far away, across the dining room floor.

Toby: HELLO?

Silence. Then...

Toby: HELLO? IS ANYBODY THERE?
Me: [Calling toward dining room.] Toby! Go to sleep!
Toby What? Who was that? Man. This is, like, so weird. It's happening again. It turned dark, and suddenly no one's around. Why does this always happen? Where'd everybody go?
Me: [Trying not to wake up my kids.] Toby! Be quiet!
Toby: Oh, there's that chick again. Let me go see...

Toby enters the bedroom. I see his giant, half-white body glowing in the doorway.

Toby: HELLO? Hey, you guys! What are you doing? How come you're all in bed with your eyes closed?
Me: [Weakly.] Toby... Please... Shh-h-h...
Toby: Should I get in bed, too? Are you gonna pet me? No? Okay, well, I'll be in the living room if anybody wants me. Just let me know.
Starbuck: Oh, Jesus Christ.

Toby clicks back into living room.

Toby: Doo dee doo... Here I am, walking around alone. Mmm, cat food. Delish! People all over the world... join hands... start a love train... love train...
My child: Can't sleep... Mom! Ricky's wearing that ugly hat again and he's crying all over my outfit for school... zzz...
Me: Why does he only meow at night?
Starbuck: See? You see how I'm being all good here, and he's making noise? This is what I've been trying to tell you. He is bad, and I am good! You need to take him back to the shelter! Oh, damn! [Jumps up and runs from room.] He's eating all the cat food!

III.

Toby has PTSD. We know this now. At some point in his childhood, someone apparently abused him with household items. This is how we found out: I lying in bed, recovering from a long day of broking commercial insurance by flipping through a magazine and talking to my boyfriend on my cell. My cell was also charging at the time.

Me: And then I was like, whatever! And she was like, let me just email everybody as if they care! And I was like, well I will Reply All on that shit, and CC our boss, his wife, and my lawyer! That'll teach her to ask me if I followed up on Alan's file! I'm like, "You follow up on YOUR files, and I'll follow up on MY files, and you follow up on SHUT THE HELL UP." Not even to mention that she's trying to copy my hair color.
Tad: Uh huh.
Toby: Hi!
Me: Oh my God, can they please stop showing these kids from the Hills? Jesus! So anyway, remember I was telling you about that one time a long time ago when I saw that green skirt on sale and it was too small? Back when I was sixteen? And I was like, totally traumatized?
Tad: Uh huh.
Toby: Hi!! It's okay if you want to pet me now!

Toby falls onto my magazine, tearing the Heidi Montag page, and head butts me in the eye.

Me: Jesus, Toby. Toby's here. Oh, guess what. Toby and Starbuck didn't make any noise at all last night. Until 3:30 AM, when they started fighting under the bed. But they stopped at 4:30 AM, when I finally got up and sent them out of the bedroom. I think they're getting better, don't you?
Tad: Uh uh. Not really, no.

My elbow is falling asleep, so I turn from my stomach to my side, temporarily pausing my petting of Toby. As I turn, the charger cord connected to my cell brushes across Toby's ear.

Toby: Oh my God! It's happening again! RED ALERT! RED ALERT! THE VEE-CEES ARE IN THE TREES!

Toby jumps up, makes a warning motion as if to bite my hand.

Me: [Sitting up quickly, so that the charger cord pulls out of the phone.] What the fuck? Toby, what's wrong with you?

Toby grabs phone cord, starts feverishly biting it.

Tad: What happened?
Me: I don't know. Toby just freaked out. I think it was because I turned away from him to talk to you. Do you think he's jealous of you? Do you think he wants me all for himself? Do you think he's emotionally abusive, looking to get into a codependent relationship with me? Oh my god, why does this shit always happen to me? Why am I a magnet for...
Tad: He probably just got scared. You know how he's kind of jumpy.
Me: Maybe. Oh, shoot -- I need to charge my phone. I don't know why it keeps running out of charge so fast... It's not like I talk on it all the time or...

I reach over and take the charger plug from Toby. The cord brushes against his body.

Toby: JESUS CHRIST!

Toby jumps straight into the air, lands near Starbuck at the foot of the bed, and bites the air near her back.

Toby: [Jumping off bed.] Why? Why does the devil cord follow me???
Starbuck: Oh, for the love of...
Me: Oh. I think I know what's wrong with him now.
Tad: Baby, do you mind if I get off the phone and eat dinner now?
Me: Oh, I guess. I'll call you later, okay? [Hanging up, putting phone cord out of sight, turning to Toby.] Toby, come here, baby. Come here.

Warily, Toby jumps up on bed. I reach over to my nightstand and grab the cat brush that's there.

Me: Here, baby. Let me brush you.
Toby: [Jumping off bed, running out of room.] Not the cat brush! Not the CAT BRUSH! No means no! No-o-o-o!!!
Me: What is his deal?
Starbuck: Hell if I know. I told you, you never should have got him from the shelter.
Me: Oh, Starbuck. Come here.
Starbuck: Only if you're going to brush me. Otherwise, shut the hell up.

FIN.

2008-02-26T05:55:00.000-06:00

what's going on

We went to the Rockets vs Miami Heat game, because one of the peeps at my job gave me last-minute free tickets, and I was like, "Let me do my duty as a single mom to boys and take my kids to this free sporting event." It was fun.

We went to the FFA rodeo carnival in Renee Zellweger's home town, and I'm happy to say that I'm all carnivaled out and won't have to go to another one for at least two years. Also, the funnel cake underwhelmed us.

We walked along the Buffalo Bayou to see Houston's new skate park, under construction, and then kept walking all the way to Sam Houston Park, which is very awesome. I hadn't been there since I was a kid, and it's increased in awesomeness since then. They have all these historical homes that they picked up and plunked down in various spots, and you can call on your cell phone to hear a recording about each home. And, maybe it's just because I'm getting older, or because I was steeped in Houston civic pride (jingoism) at an early age, but I really enjoyed hearing the recordings while scoping out the houses. Most were about people who showed up in Houston while it was still being made, who busted ass until they made enough money to buy themselves houses, and who, usually, eventually, became rich. And had streets and opera houses named after them, and the like. Very inspiring. Plus, the houses are pretty. You should check it out.

Then, in the Heritage Society Museum, they have a model general store which is awesomeness deluxe. Just the medicine section, full of boxes of Screw Worm Remover and Dr. Thatcher's Swamp Root Laxative, is worth poring over for days.

Then, they had a big old display about Jesse H. Jones, about whom I used to know nothing except that his is the name of a local high school who beat my high school in basketball all the time. But we learned all about Mr. Jones this weekend. Him, his wife, and their penchant for Art Deco furnishings. His granddaughter, Audrey Jones Beck, who looked a lot like Stockard Channing in the picture they showed us, and whose name is all over Houston's art museums.

Sometimes I want to learn all about Houston's philantropist tribes. But I want to learn it incidentally, you know? As a matter of trivia, not of study.

We walked to a man-made lake and looked at duck-made ducks.

We went to a salad buffet. I bit into brocolli slaw and my temporary bridge cracked in half. I went to my dentist, my brother-in-law-to-be, and he said it was time to get a real bridge. I tried to lie to him and say I was only eating brocolli. He expressed surprise. I said, "Brocolli with peanuts." He said, "It was a peanut." I felt ugly, lying to my b-i-l-2-b like that. But I wanted him to have a good impression of me. You know?

2008-02-21T05:50:00.000-06:00

quick

I typed this in an email to my boyfriend (fiance) and decided to paste it here, too, so y'all know:
I feel, lately, like most of the problems around me are caused by unhappy people looking to make others unhappy. I want to be left alone so I can do my work and have a good life.

I put a couple of new pics on the Flickr page, including my new author photo and a pic of Toby and me. New author photo is also on the About page, for those who are interested in seeing it but don't want to click all the way over to Flickr.

weight yammering

I'm a little bit annoyed by the fact that I've been losing and gaining the same five pounds since February 1. I want to tell people "I've lost 40 pounds!" but then that number changes back to 35. Back and forth, back and forth. I read a comment on a blog the other day (maybe Big Fat Deal?) where someone said, "The only way she was able to maintain that weight was by eating only 1200 calories a day and exercising for 90 minutes every night!!" And I thought, "Damn." Because that's what I'm doing every day, and it's not working. I'm stuck here at this pants size that I don't want to be.

My number one motivation here is becoming a pants size that is readily available in all non-plus-size, non-vanity-sized retail clothing stores. I'll just say it: Size 12. And it's not happening. And it's starting to piss me off. Personally, I don't think 90 minutes of exercise per day is a lot, especially if you spend most of your day sitting at a desk or in your car. It's not like we live in genteel Victorian England, where everyone has a huge freaking garden to take an hour-long walk after every meal. So I don't feel like it's unreasonable that I might have to exercise even more. But I do feel like I either have time to lose weight, or time to, say, write a novel. But not both. Not with an eight-hour day job and 2 hour roundtrip commute. Very, very annoying.

(Note: The above paragraphs are about me, not about you. I want to be size 12, and that's my business. My desire to be size 12 has nothing to do with your body, my opinion of your body, or American society's potential, personal hatred of you. FYI. So don't start, if you're thinking of starting down that road.)

Hardcore judgmental thoughts, here. Avert your eyes if you can't take it.

See... I hate lookism, and so I avoid people who judge others only by their looks. But, at the same time, I can't stand it when people go around presupposing that everyone is discriminating against them or, basically, that any woman thinner/prettier than them must be an evil bitch. It goes both ways, you know?

A while back, I found some chick's weight-loss blog. (I will never recall the URL and I'm about to hate on this chick, so I wouldn't post it in any case.) This woman said she'd just lost some enormous amount of weight, okay? And she had several entries about how it now disgusts her to see fat people on the subway. She said she especially hates to watch them eat. And that's her right, I suppose. You could maybe say her reaction was actually self-hatred and fear of becoming fat again. But still, I thought, "Well, you're a miserable, insecure, lookist bitch, and that's why you'll never be happy, no matter what you do."

A while back, that old Trainwrecks site used to link to a Livejournal group for "hot" fat chicks. Fat chicks who thought themselves pretty would submit a picture to the group, and then the group -- in plain sight, online -- would critique the hell out of the photo and vote on whether the submitter was "hot" enough to join their little clique. I saw that and thought, "I bet a million dollars half these chicks go to fat-activist sites and complain about lookism on a regular basis."

This feeling has been boiling inside me for a while, and I've resisted posting it because it's kind of sexist, but now I can't stand it anymore and I have to say: Insecure women are a major force of evil in our country. Or, at least, a major source of annoyance to me, personally.

I mean, insecure men are plentiful and annoying, too. But there are whole industries built on the masses of insecure women who believe that their only value is in being pretty, and that, if they can't be prettiest, they can at least judge less pretty women and hate prettier women. And then, of course, they give stupid men the excuse to walk around labelling all women catty bitches.

Disclaimer: I'm sure I used to be one of these insecure women, probably. And it's only because I'm getting older that I have so little patience for that sort of thing today. (Maybe my reaction is secretly self-hatred and a fear of becoming insecure again? Heh.) But I'm not the only one who's tired of insecure women. It seems like, in each of my social groups, most of the women are working, buying cars and houses, starting families... and then there's that one woman who's constantly comparing her looks to everyone else's and worrying whether men think she's hot. And the rest of us are like, "Jesus, bitch, can you please shut up about that stupid, boring crap?" You know? Like:

Jane: OMG, you guys, my mom has been really ill lately. She's getting worse.
Sharon: Oh, no. That sucks. What are you going to do?
Jane: I don't know. My brother and I are meeting tonight to discuss our options. She might have to move in with John and me.
Cindy: Wow, that sucks. Guess what, you guys! I lost six more pounds! So now I weigh even less than you, Jane! And guess what else. That guy at Starbucks? Totally checked me out again. I think it was my new bra. I can't wait for Todd to find out -- he's gonna be so jealous!
Jane and Sharon: [stony silence]
Cindy: So, you guys, why don't we go to that Starbucks, and then go shopping for smaller jeans? We never hang out anymore. You guys never call me anymore. Why is that? Is it because I'm thinner than you now?

Coming down now.

Okay. Sorry I had to talk all loud like that. I just feel like, lately, I'm trying to vent these feelings in a subtle way, but I'm not being very clear, and then people are like, "What? She said on her blog that pretty women don't deserve to live on our planet? She's a jerk, then! A fat, ugly jerk whose boyfriend didn't buy her anything for Valentine's Day!" So I wanted to clarify. Hope I did.

Later, taters.

2008-02-13T18:59:00.002-06:00

Questions to Consider

1. Would you rather live in a world where looks don't matter, or live in a world where your looks embody the standard of beauty?

2. What's wrong with getting by on your looks? Is that somehow worse than getting by on your brains, your perseverence, or your good personality?

I think I'm okay with people getting by on their looks, as long as they're honest about it. And, more importantly, as long as the people choosing/hiring/electing the pretty people are honest about their motivation. Don't flirt with your pretty secretary all day and then tell me you're promoting her because she types real fast.

I think I'm also okay with people wishing to be beautiful enough to get by on their looks. Again, though, as long as they're honest. Don't pretend you're trying to eradicate lookism if, really, in your heart, you're just trying to browbeat people into giving you the same perks that pretty people get.

3. If you are a woman and you want your significant other to buy you something for Valentine's Day: Would you be as happy with your gift if you weren't allowed to show anyone or tell anyone about it?

I ask this because I remember that, in high school, I didn't hate Valentine's Day because none of the boys at my school bought me gifts. I hated it because all the girls at my school went around making note of who got gifts and who didn't. Now that I'm no longer surrounded by packs of immature girls, I don't need gifts for Valentine's Day. And I realize that the whole thing was just more of the bullshit insecurity contests that women put each other through.

4. What could a man possibly buy me that I wouldn't be just as glad to buy for myself?

Nothing. I have really good taste, actually, and therefore I prefer to buy jewelry, flowers, and candy for myself.
:)

2008-02-12T12:01:00.000-06:00

Linkelodeon

1. Zadie Smith cohosted a short story contest. Eight hundred and fifty people entered. Then, Ms. Smith informed the entrants that none of their stories were good enough to win. Ouchies.

No, I didn't enter, because I didn't hear about the contest until now. But if I'd entered, I would be walking around with a drink in my hand right now, telling people, "Zadie Smith doesn't care for my writing." Too bad I didn't enter, then. Next year I will.

2. I kind of suspect this is a publicity stunt, or kind of hope it is, for the sake of everyone involved: One of Gawker's former editors "secretly" hooked up with another one of Gawker's editors, and one of the two apparently kept a "secret" blog about the relationship. And so the other of the two went ahead and wrote a big old essay about it for Page 6 mag, telling everyone in the world who didn't already know.

3. Related subject, on the internets and in my mind: A long time ago, Tracie Egan wrote an essay about trying to get her rape fantasy fulfilled. I was interested to find out what would happen, so read eagerly. But then, it turned into a sad story about thwarted hopes, all the way around.

All three preceding links via Gawker, which is my painful weekday addiction.

4. Ashton Kutcher at your middle school dance.

5. The Barbie Tarot, via Pop Culture Junk Mail.

6. This is old, but still true: Roast Beef and Ray discuss McDonald's vs Starbucks.

7. I keep seeing this Star Wars cook book at Urban Outfitters and wanting it, even though the recipes themselves aren't that exciting. The pictures are funny, though.

8. Another old thing. We saw this SNL rerun Digital Short the other night, and can't stop thinking about it: People Getting Punched Just Before Eating. You have to watch a commercial first, sorry. That's the price of legal content viewing. Also, please view with sound on, as the song is half the magic.

2008-02-11T05:41:00.000-06:00

Toby Update
by request, for Pixielyn

Toby seems to be doing okay, y'all. He still hides a lot, but we're starting to realize that he just gets off on hiding. For instance, he likes to hide under our bed and watch us. Eavesdrop on us.

And it seems that he and Starbuck have bonded over that. One day last week, Starbuck ran to hide under the bed, and Toby was already there. So what did she do? She hid with him. They sat under the bed, facing the same direction, for half an hour. Then, someone made a noise and Toby ran out into the living room. Starbuck ran out right next to him. I knew that she was trying to play the Chase Game with him.

The Chase Game = Whenever someone walks out of my bedroom, Starbuck runs like hell to get in front of that person and pretend she's being chased. Each Chase Game must include at least one 180-degree spin-out on the Pergo floor and one wreck into furniture or walls. Conversely, if one of us walks into my bedroom, then Starbuck has to run ahead, through the bedroom and into the master bath. She's better at this one. She has this cool trick where she jumps up on two wheels, so to speak, and bounces off the side of my bed on her way to the bathroom. It's very Matrix-y. Usually we just watch her do this and laugh, but sometimes we'll pretend to chase her around the house a little. We have to make monster noises. She has to run through the kitchen, office, hall. We have to reverse directions and chase her back through hall, office kitchen. She ends up under the dining room table, panting and with gleaming eyes.

So anyhow. Toby ran out from under the bed, and Starbuck ran with him with a look on her face that clearly said, "Oh, yes, now is the time we play the Chase Game!" And Toby stopped and looked at her like, "Why are you running, too?" And she looked at him like, "C'mon!" And he looked at her like, "I don't understand this person." And then he went and ate some food.

So, since then, Starbuck's been hiding with him and trying unsuccessfully to teach him the Chase Game. But sometimes she still gets pissed off at him, too. He likes to be petted, but we have to drag him out of hiding, first. The other day I was petting him and he drooled on me.

Here are a few more pics, for those of y'all who missed them. More soon.

Weather Wishes

I'm sending sympathy and condolences out to the tornado survivors in the South. I hope y'all get all your stuff rebuilt and recovered as soon as possible. And sympathies to the blizzard/snow-having people in the North -- I'm sorry y'all are cold and have to shovel snow.

Weekend Adventures

The weather was nice here, so we wanted to do something outside. Of course, so did every other human being in Houston. So we went to Hermann Park, which is right next to the zoo, the biggest museums, and a bunch of other stuff. And of course, there was no parking. Because never, since I was born, has there been enough parking at Hermann Park. Ahem. Mayor White, please fix this. I'm not mad at you anymore. I mean, please feel free to finish the skate park first, because that's going to be completely awesome. But then, right after that, please add some parking to the zoo area. Thanks.

So we couldn't park there, and we were sad. And then I said, "Oh, wait -- weren't we going to go to the Arboretum?"

Yes. So we did. And it was awesome. I'd only been there once before. On that first time, we got lost on the trails among the swampy woods, and it was hot. But it was still fun. This time, the weather was perfect and we took a little trail map with us, so it was completely effing awesome. And it was free -- well, donation requested, not required. And there was a ton of parking. Because no one ever goes there, because it's kind of educational and nature-y, and that turns people off, I guess. I don't blame them. It turned me off at first, too. But then I gave it a shot, and it was cool for reasons I didn't expect. It's like, you walk twenty feet into the swampy woods, and that's it. You're gone. You're in the middle of the wilderness. You're a hobbit, and Gandalf's waiting for you, over there by that creepy tree.

I used to think the pond was the coolest part, but then we saw the swamp, and it's shockingly beautiful. It's creepylicious, with gnarly trees reaching out of the water, and the water covered with pale green algae or scum or pollen. It's kind of like the swamps around the bayou, but without the homeless people or the smell. I can't explain. You just have to go.

Funny thing -- I joked with Tad that we should have our wedding there, and I could wear my Halloween fairy costume. But now I see that they do, in fact, host weddings.

If you're thinking of going, go before it gets hot. So, before May. This weekend was so completely perfect -- one of those unrealistically perfect Houston weather times. Sunday we went to another less frequented parky area, which I will always call Transco Tower, even though that hasn't been its name since I was a teenager. Transco Tower is awesome because it has a local landmark of a fountain, that looks just like this, except with a cross section of everyone in Houston standing in front of it, damp, trying to get a photo. And at least one quinceanera with her court of 14 teen couples. Always.

Does this sound like I'm trying to boost Houston tourism? I'm not -- y'all know I just love my hometown, and it's fun and inter-webby to show y'all what we did via links. I keep meaning to take my camera, but it's old and therefore too heavy to haul in my purse. Pulls at my shoulder muscles, you know.

okey dokey

This entry has been for people who really care about the details of my life, in the context of nothing. Sometimes I feel weird posting a lot of that stuff, because I imagine that no one cares -- that y'all come here for hard-hitting judgmental thoughts, ranty feminist screeds, and tasteful book promotion, instead -- but hey, what's the point of having a blog if I'm not going to yammer about life details, at least a little. Right?

Back to the work week. Sighz.

2008-02-06T05:53:00.000-06:00

busy-ness; current events

I've spent the last few days either writing stuff for money, or else dealing with domestic dramas. Toby is sick, for one thing. We (his vet and I) think his stomach is upset by the dietary change. We hope he doesn't have some cat digestive disease. Other people in the house get sick, on and off, but they're way easier to diagnose. Toby keeps rolling in dirty things, like a dog. I need to give him a bath tonight, if he'll let me.

Did y'all watch the Super Bowl? I saw the last half. I don't care about any one team, but football is an interesting game to watch, so I was especially excited by the thrilling conclusion to this one. I was kind of sad that the Patriots didn't get their perfect season. But, oh well. Perfect season or underdog victory: they even out, right?

Are y'all watching the primaries? Isn't it fun, to see everyone so excited about them? It's like football, in a way. Our local paper did one of those "Let's ask black women if they're voting for Obama or Hillary" pieces, and I was aggravated and embarrassed. The more often that white men ask those questions, the more it makes me think those white men would never vote for anyone other than white men.

Also, I wonder why everyone calls Hillary Hillary, but no one calls the other candidates by their first names. I'm doing it, too, you see. Hmm. Benefit of the doubt: It's not because most people are sexist -- it's to distinguish her from the other famous Clinton. Right? Sure.

There's an article somewhere today in which people are freaking out that Latinos didn't vote for Barack. Meaning that Latinos must be... racist! Because anyone who doesn't vote for Barack hates black people, right? And it is so, so shocking to the author of this article that Latinos would be racist against blacks. (Another majority culture idea -- that all minority peoples are united in their non-majority-culture-ness.)

And I was waiting for someone to point out that Hillary could be the Latino's Virgin Mary, but no one did. Because, while that would have been offensive, it wouldn't have fit in with the offensive theme of this election process, which is that everyone is racist. Racism!!!

I mean, it's to the point now that I'm more interested in media attitudes than I am in the candidates, themselves. You would think we could just consider electing a non-white person, or a non-male person, without it being this much of a mirrored maze of accusations, suspicions, and flat-out hatred. But that's not how America operates, apparently. Embarrassing.

Meanwhile... the more I have to see photographs of people from that show The Hills, the more I hate that show and vow not to watch it. Those people from The Hills are clogging up my magazines. All I want from magazines is famous women in fancy dresses. Not faux-famous girls who are marrying Spencer or breaking off their engagement with Spencer or cheating on Spencer with Zach and Gossip Girl. What is that crap? Who forces my pretty dress magazines to talk about that?

I feel sorry for Britney Spears because, at this point, she has no one she can trust.

I keep having to watch this show called Drake and Josh. Over the weekend, my youngest son explained to me why iCarly has all the same actors as Drake and Josh, but isn't the same show. My fave is Ned's Declassified, but I don't see that as much. (If you know what I'm talking about, you must have kids.) Besides those, I get to watch reruns of The Fresh Prince of Bellaire on a daily basis. It's held up pretty well, if you listen to it from your kitchen and don't see the primary-colored sweaters.

I heard the other day that Nickelodeon is doing a new show called Ni Hao, Kai lan that looks sort of like Dora the Explorer. That's funny to me because my boyfriend's niece Alyssa, who is mostly Chinese, is really into Dora. On one episode a while back, Dora and her friends celebrated Chinese New Year (which is today, coincidentally -- Kung Hey Fat Choi!) and busted out speaking Chinese. Alyssa, who was three at the time, reacted as if she'd found a Virgin Mary in her tortilla. It was a big deal to her. So I wonder if she'll like this Kai-lan show even better. Or am I being like one of those reporters here, making the racist assumptions? Maybe she won't like Kai-lan at all. :)

Happy Year of the Rat. What does this mean for me? Nothing. My boyfriend is going out to dinner with his family. I'm staying home with my kids, and we'll work out and watch Project Runway.

I've lost 40 lbs total now. Fifteen pounds to go. Over the weekend we went to the mall and I picked up a pair of clearance corduroys at Ann Taylor Loft in a size I literally haven't worn since I was 18. That was nice, even though I've ruined the moment, in my mind, by deciding that Ann Taylor vanity-sizes everything.

Still, though. It may be a vanity size, but it's a smaller vanity size than I wore last month.

That's it. More later. Stay warm, y'all.

2008-02-01T12:04:00.000-06:00

Friday Linkelodeon for People Who Are Bored

1. How to Make an Earbud Cord Caddy. I showed this to my boyfriend and he was like, "We could make those and sell them!" and I was like, "No, too sweatshop for too little money." But it would be fun to make one, if I had an I-Pod.

2. Do you need a Burt Reynolds purse? I think you might.

3. So this nature writer finds out that a very prolific, best-selling romance novelist plagiarized from his article about black-footed ferrets. And he writes a pretty funny, good-sport piece about it.
Meanwhile, on the site of the initial plagiarism discovery, readers are scanning the novelist's other books and finding plagiarism galore.

4. The AV Club ranks on progressive rock album covers. I knew, before even looking, that a Yes album would be included.

5. Sometimes I love the NPR program This American Life, and sometimes I don't. Often, listening to the stories in my van, I can't help tearing up a little. I loved the story of the evangelically raised student who took on a demon at his university.

On the other hand, I hated the story about the girl who got a heart transplant thanks to a boy who'd been murdered by gang members. That one literally made me sob, I was so upset by the self-centeredness of some of its characters. I remember sitting in the parking lot of Home Depot, waiting for the story to end, and then waiting to get hold of myself, it upset me so much. But don't get me wrong -- it's totally worth hearing.