All new blogging! All new blog genre!!! Guess what, peeps. I'm the Houston Chronicle's newest mom blogger. Are you shocked because you never thought of me as a mommy blogger before? Well, you know what that means, don't you? All new, never-before-told invasions of my children's privacy for your reading entertainment! Go visit and enjoy!
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Right now: I'm about to start writing a new novel and will tell y'all the title as soon as we decide on it. :)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Partners inLest you think my honeymoon was nothing but the drama surrounding the Epic SCUBA Fail described below, I will assure you now that Hawaii is every bit as awesome as everyone says. I kind of already figured, in fact, before we even set off, that it would be futile to try to describe such a well known travel destination, or even to photograph what’s been photographed so many, many times by professionals.
What was unique about our trip to Oahu, then, was something Dat-and-Gwen-centric: the additional evidence that we make a good team.
WARNING: FRUITY, SMURFY, SACCHARINE WORDS AHEAD.
Part of the reason my
Late one night, a couple of years back, the Houston freeway known as 290 was closed for repairs. That’s our normal route home. Our alternative was a long, parallel, four-lane road called Hempstead.
Hempstead is one of those industrial roads that’s mainly frequented by 18-wheelers. So it’s not only lined with giant metal buildings full of giant hunks of metal, but also the occasional pancake house and strip club.
When you drive down Hempstead in the wee hours of the night, you’ll see that a few of the buildings are lit up and full of moving machinery, and so presumably full of men who eat pancake specials and give parts of their paychecks to strippers. If you like, you can peer into the buildings, analyze the vehicles in their parking lots, and imagine all sorts of stories.
From the middle of Houston to the edge, it’s a long ride down Hempstead. We rode slow and silent for quite a few minutes before Dat pointed out, “We’re on an adventure.”
“I was just about to tell you that!” I said. Because I really was. Because we’re always on adventures, me and Dat.
So imagine us as those two people, but riding down a freeway under mimosas the size of mainland oaks and trees that dangle mangoes, in our rental car that was upgraded to a convertible for cheap. Imagine us walking down beaches full of tourists from all over the world, as well as locals of every flavor. Every other person there has a story – some that they told us and some that we had to construct on our own. And everyone has cameras, and you get to see what they think is important to capture with them. And then you trade cameras with strangers and hope for the best. Even when they can’t frame a shot for crap, it’s a memory preserved for you.
Memories preserved in me, all jumbled on a page:
Oahu = very beautiful plants, mountains and shoreline surrounding thousands of structures from the ‘70s and older, all peppered with tiny slivers of new-new expensive stores and rentals.
Every single person there is mixed or in a mixed couple, and it’s the only place I’ve ever been where absolutely no one gave us a second glance for being a Caucasian chick with an Asian guy. We were even mistaken for locals, once by an irate tourist seeking King’s Hawaiian bread and once by a snooty salesman in the Ala Moana shopping mall. I felt like I was in the idealized future of my fantasies, where everyone is mixed and no one can hate people based on ethnicity. And it really seemed that no one in Oahu did. But it was more than just that – all the locals were well versed in multiple cultures. And they were all obviously proud of their fellow peeps. It was beautiful.
Everyone asks how the sushi was, and we never even tried it. We didn’t get the chance. Mostly we ate in Chinatown, where the merchants were having a contest to see who could offer the cheapest dim sum. Everyone there spoke Cantonese (even the Vietnamese people) but told us they were learning Mandarin. They have “bubble tea” there, but it’s mostly bubble slushies. Our cha siu = their char siu. Our dried plums = their li hing. Chow fun = look fun. Red bean = “black sugar” or azuki bean. Yellow bean = non-existent. But everything was good and fresh – especially the plates including ginger. A lot of the restaurants used noodles from the one noodle factory that still made them by hand. And they were so, so good. I never appreciated chow fun until I ate it in Honolulu, y’all.
The way all signs in Houston are in both English and Spanish? Is the way all signs in Honolulu are in English and Japanese. All the employees at the mall spoke Japanese. All the Japanese people carried LeSportsac bags, and you could get the knock-offs of them in Chinatown.
Locals in Oahu seemed to come in two sizes: manapua-eating size, and surfing-all-day size. Guess which size I’d be if I lived there? Yeah. :) Hawaiian food is sweet and rich. I normally love sweet/rich food, but the Hawaiians had me beat with their sweet fried chicken and their two-starch plate lunches and the buttery, buttery fried sandwich bread. No, we didn’t try poi, because we didn’t go to any luaus. The McDonalds in Hawaii Kai advertised fried taro pie, but no, I didn’t try one. I was too stuffed with coconut manapuas (kinda like round kolaches or baked bao) and the hole-less Portuguese donuts called malasadas. No, we didn’t try the shrimp trucks. I feel like we disappointed everyone back home with the fact that we skipped the tour-book stuff and mostly ate Chinese food. But it was good, so I don’t care.
The groceries and gasoline weren’t much more expensive than in Houston. Only a few random things, like orange juice, were expensive. They sold hard liquor in the grocery stores. They sold Japanese candy at every drugstore. The Wal-Mart was a little more expensive and had less selection than Texas Wal-Marts. (Yes, we went to the Wal-Mart just to see if it was different from our Wal-Mart.) The Old Navy, however, was exactly the same. Stores with only Japanese stuff were 3,000 times more expensive than the other stores. The sales tax was, like, 0.0001%.
That’s all. I’ll stop here because it sounds like I’m obsessed with food and ethnicity and money, I know. But I don’t know how else to describe what we did there. I mean, we spent most of the time driving around the edges of the island in our rented convertible, saying “Oooooh!” and “What if we lived there? Or what if we lived there?” and “OMG, can you imagine if that was your elementary school?” and clicking zillions of pics of everything that’s been photographed a million times before.
And being on the beaches, beaches, beaches that, no matter how much better or worse they are in relation to each other, were all five gazillion times better than our Gulf of Mexico’s. Hours and hours just staring at the clarity of the water and wanting to cry over it. Marveling over the rocks and the vicious undertow. Holding up handfuls of sand to each other and picking out our favorite individual grains.
And, you know. Having adventures together. Incidentally being in love. I can’t describe it better than that. I can only say that I can’t wait until we do it again.
Because we will, some day.
Labels: culture, gluttony, Hawaii, married life
6:08 PM # (8) commentsFriday, June 19, 2009
Fear cleanses.Dat (my husband) said there was no way I was reading the TripAdvisor description correctly. There was no way that a scuba diving excursion would be designed for “first-timers.” I had said scuba, but must have meant snorkeling.
“No,” I told him. “it says they can show you how to scuba dive. First-timers. No experience necessary.”
Granted, it wasn’t the scuba diving excursion outfit itself that claimed this; it was a few TripAdvisor readers. But that was all we needed to sign up for the trip. Dat really, really wanted to do some sort of underwater fishy thing. I was really, really secretly scared to try it, but the positive reviews convinced me to give it a shot.
Our hosts, our co-divers, the boat and the ocean were all very nice. Captain Joe played classic rock on his radio, turning the best songs up loud as we sped away from the marina. The sun and breeze made love to my skin as I shoehorned myself into a wet suit. On our way out to the unseasonably choppy midseas, Eric and Jeff showed us how to work the masks and the respirators. “When you start going down the line…” they’d say, over and over in explanation. I didn’t know what line they meant, but decided I’d figure it all out eventually.
I was a little bit nervous. The wet plastic of the mask pressed unevenly against my nostrils, and the respirator didn’t seem to like my inhalations. “Clamp down with your teeth,” Dat said. “Make a tight seal with your lips,” Jeff said. That, plus refraining from snorting the water, plus trying to look like I wasn’t afraid. It was a lot to multi-task.
They said not to get nervous and I said I wasn’t nervous and they said they knew I wasn’t nervous and that was good because the worst thing you could do was get nervous. The best thing you could do was not be nervous. I wasn’t, I said. Because I was forcing myself to breathe nice and slow, like non-nervous people do. I was not clenching anything, except for my teeth when I needed to suck some more air through the freaking respirator because I needed oxygen to live. See? Everything was fine. A. O. K. Under rigid control.
We were the only first-timers on board. The other people were very nice. Two of them were from France. They didn’t speak much English. I told them one of the two French sentences I remember: “Je ne parle pas de francais.” They seemed to know what I meant. (My other French sentence is “Ou est le w.c.?” but I decided to save that one for later.)
The non-first-timers jumped off the boat all haphazard. They came back awed and agog. The French diver said a lot of French words to her mother about the things she’d seen under the sea. It seemed really exciting. For her. I imagined being her and being excited, in a wetsuit I’d purchased myself that fit my bikini’d form like a glove. Being the kind of woman who wore bikinis with no makeup and bought serious sports equipment and traveled across oceans to partake in the oceans themselves. Bringing my mom along to photograph my exploits and enjoy the sun. I admired her.
I admired the dolphins. They seemed happy, just like most dogs do, but they were also tricksters. They knew how our boat and our cameras worked, and they made sure to do flips and spins only when our boat and cameras were facing the wrong way. “Mahalo, bitches!” they’d call as they flipped and spun. “Awww…! O-o-o-oh!” we sighed.
It was first-timer time, then. They asked who wanted to go first, me or Dat.
“Dat’s going first,” I said. They laughed, I can’t remember why. They said something about “guinea pig.” But I just remember thinking that if I watched him do it, I could do it right after him. And not be nervous. Because I was not nervous.
Dat jumped directly into the water, his head going right under, then bobbing up again, then steadily sinking down as he went along the line, which turned out to be a blue rope and not the white rope that I’d spent the last half hour watching.
As soon as he went under the water all the way, my heart started banging against the inside of my wet suit. Then Eric came to get me.
I spit out my respirator. I pulled off my mask. “I can’t go,” I said. Whispered, actually, because no one heard me and I had to say it louder.
Eric sat and tried to figure out what was wrong. Nothing was wrong, as long as I didn’t go into the water like Dat had just done. Everything was fine, as long as I stayed sitting right here.
“Are you sure?” Eric asked. He was a nice man with a very nice face, but it flashed through my mind like a savage bloody vision that I wasn’t going to let him put me into the water. His hands were at his sides. It was okay. “I’m sure,” I said.
Jeff came up – having left Dat below the surface – to pick me up. Eric had to tell him I wasn’t going. I made a joke about it, saying that I’d planned it that way all along.
Jeff went back under and Eric went up front with the others and I was left there alone with my abashedness and the people who mostly spoke French.
The woman I admired smiled sympathetically at me and said, very slowly and carefully, “The first time… my first time… I was… terrified.” It sounds beautiful when French people say words with Rs in them, but I understood that she really meant it. I also understood that she’d overcome her terror that first time, and now felt that it’d been worth it.
Dat came back early. He’d gotten some water in his respirator and asked to be pulled up. Was he okay? Yes, he was okay. “What happened to you?” he asked me. “I got too scared,” I said. “Yeah,” he told me. “When I got down there, I was thinking, ‘There’s no way Gwen could do this.’” The boat started up and pulled away. The dolphins had gone out of sight.
I felt more and more embarrassed – more like a bailing sissy failure. Jeff sat by me again and I asked him questions. “How many people end up bailing altogether, like I did?” I asked. He said maybe one of ten. He reiterated his and Eric’s belief that, if those people would just try it, they’d probably overcome the fear and enjoy it.
Because I hate the way failure tastes, I thought hard and fast and realized that the part that was actually scaring me was the suddenness of the being underwater. What if, I asked Jeff, there was a way that I could go in gradually?
Jeff’s face brightened. It was the easiest thing in the world. I didn’t have to jump in at all. I could slide in. Of course I could! They really wanted me to try it and like it and be glad that I’d done so.
“Hold up! Gwen’s going to try it!” They knew all our names, and they said my name all over the boat. Gwen’s gonna try! Gwen’s gonna do it! Gwen is brave! Gwen is not a failure!
Lickety-split, I got suited back up. Mask, respirator, flippers, vest, weights, tank. Blasting Blondie’s “Heart of Glass,” the boat skidded to a halt on the choppy/happy friendly glinting waves.
Jeff jumped in to wait as Eric led me to the plank like… no, not like a pirate leading a prisoner to the gangplank. It was like… something fun. Something good. Something peaceful. Something calm. Something not nervous. I am not nervous. I am breathing slowly because I am calm. In. Out. In, dammit, with my teeth. Slowly. Out, slowly, again.
I sat on the edge of the plank. This is good, I thought. I can do this, I said in my mind. I took a moment to clear my mind. Then I slid into the water. I sank under the water.
And something went wrong.
You know what went wrong? I was under the water, and I had plastic pressing against my nose, and a big hunk of plastic clogging my mouth, and weights all over my body, and crap strapped to my feet. And that was all wrong. And so I had to get out of that situation.
You know how, in those old movies, they’d show a stable burning down and somebody having to go and save the horses? And the horses are always completely freaking out, and they don’t want to do what the person’s trying to get them to do? The person’s trying to get the rope around them and lead them out to safety, and they’re all neighing and jumping up and kicking at the person and completely having horsey mental breakdowns? And you’re thinking, “Why doesn’t that dumb-ass horse just follow the guy out?” But it can’t, because it's too scared and rife with animal instinct.
That was me, there in the water. And poor Jeff was the guy trying to save me. And Eric was calling from the boat at both of us. “Gwen, let go of the line!” they told me. And I held the line in a death grip, because I didn’t want to sink down again. “Gwen, stop kicking your legs!” they said. And I kicked like there was no tomorrow, because I wanted to propel myself out of the water. “Gwen, keep breathing in the respirator!” I spit that respirator out of my mouth and then fought to keep my mouth above the choppy-ass waves that were higher than they’d looked from the boat, now that I was down in them, grasping and kicking and gulping salty air. Poor Jeff treaded water around me, trying to do I-don’t-know-what. I understood later that he was trying to inflate my vest so I’d float, trying to remove my flippers so I could climb the ladder. But at that moment, I only knew with my horse-brain that I had to breathe and I had to get free and I would have to rear up and kick if anyone tried to stop me. “Grab the last rung of the ladder!” they kept saying. But that rung was under the water and they obviously couldn’t see that I was dying and so I could only rely on myself and I had to save myself and I kicked and struggled and gulped and kicked and fought and grabbed….
Eventually Jeff herded me to a position where he could yank off one of my flippers and Eric could reach over the edge of the boat and rip off my stupid mask, now useless without the respirator. That did the trick, turned me human again. “Thank you!” I sobbed, finally able to breathe right. I stopped kicking and Jeff took off the other flipper, and then it was perfectly easy to climb up to safety.
I was alive.
Back at our seats, Dat comforted me by putting his arms around me and sighing, “I knew you shouldn’t have gone in. But you were brave to try. I’m proud of you, baby.”
He told me then what’d actually happened to him under the water. He’d gotten some water in his respirator, yes, I already knew that part. But then, he’d panicked. His number one instinct was to spit out the respirator and take a big breath of air. Of course there was no air outside the respirator and if he did that, he’d die.
I cringed in vicarious fear as he explained how he’d fought to overcome the urge. He’d signaled Jeff and, slowly to keep the pressure steady, made his way back up the line, breathing long and full around the water that he felt gathering near his mouth. Silently, he’d fought like hell to stay calm.
I felt like crying, imagining Dat having to go through that. I thanked God he’d had the presence of mind not to spit out his respirator. Then I felt so horrible when he said that, all the way up, he was worried about me - worried that I was coming down and that I might get scared and not be able to stay calm.
We sat with our arms around each other and smiled at the water rushing by. We were happy to be alive, proud to have survived what we now knew were survivable ordeals. Dat had learned something about himself that day: He was strong and wouldn’t crack under pressure in life-or-death situations. And I’d learned something about myself, too. It was that… um… No one would get close enough to steal my wallet if I were drowning. Yeah!
Everyone else on the boat – the hosts, the captain, four other passengers - was quiet. They were all downcast. Or maybe something other than downcast – it was hard to tell because they all avoided my gaze. Maybe they were angry and hated me for ruining the boat trip.
Jesus, I felt so horrible then. I had ruined the whole freaking boat trip. The beautiful scenery, the dolphins, everyone else’s awesome dives – they were all overshadowed now by the humiliating spectacle of my EPIC SCUBA FAIL.
Seriously, no one would even look at me. How could they? I asked myself. They’d just witnessed me acting like a wild animal or tantrum-y child. Then, as for Eric and Jeff… when I caught their eyes, they looked almost sad. I knew they were annoyed with me and maybe even stressing over the possibility of me being the kind of litigious a-hole who would sue them.
The only thing that’d stayed happy was the music. I listened to it and laughed aloud, despite everything. Because, hey -- I was alive. I turned to the French maman, who regarded me with distant maternal concern. With short words and an elaborate pantomime, I told her that I was regretful and wished everyone would be happy again. She pantomimed that everyone was fine and I shouldn’t worry about it. It was no biggie.
The next time Eric and Jeff walked by, I flagged them down and apologized profusely, and thanked them for saving me from the horrible fate that everyone else on the boat had been able to handle. They said no apology or thanks were necessary. Everything was okay.
The French woman and the couple from Bulgaria by way of Boston stayed busy with their gear, so I left them alone. I stood at the rail and listened to the music that Capt. Joe had turned loud again. I thought about approaching his section of the boat and asking how often he saw people fail so spectacularly at diving. Or maybe I’d compliment his taste in music. But Capt. Joe seemed married to the sea, by the way he kept scanning the water and ignoring the rest of us, so I left him alone, too.
I looked out at the water and sang along quietly with The Who and Steve Miller. I was alive. I giggled quietly to myself. Dat came up and put his arm around me and we absorbed the awesomeness of our surroundings.
After a few songs, I saw that we were actually waiting for one of the other divers to return. He’d been gone for a long time. Capt. Joe was scanning the water for this guy, revving the engine for this guy to hear. Selfishly relieved that we were all focused on someone else now, I scanned the water like hungry seagull. When Casey finally came up (wetsuit-less, his gear over nothing but swim trunks and chest hair), he was sheepish about having kept us waiting so long. He’d had some kind of issue with something or other, but now he was okay. Eric and Jeff helped him put away his tank, and then Capt. Joe drove us away.
“Check this out.” Casey sat by me and showed me the video he’d taken of manta rays and giant fish at the bottom of the sea. It was totally awesome. Afterwards I told him, “Hey, you missed it… I tried to dive and totally failed. I had a major panic attack in the water and everyone was freaking out. It was hilarious.”
“Really? Aw, man.” He frowned. So did I. Casey had moved to Oahu from Colorado two years before and took this diving trip as often as he could. He and I had bonded, earlier, over our shared affinity for classic rock. He was a cool guy, and I’d been willing to sacrifice my dignity to get a laugh out of him and cheer everyone up. But instead, he looked disappointed.
“It’s okay!” I told him. “I’m alive. It’s all good now. I just feel shitty because Eric and Jeff are sad.”
“Naw, they’re fine,” he said. “They just wanted you to have a good time. Did you have a good time, at least, before that happened?”
“Yeah! I’m still having a good time now!” I couldn’t explain it, but I was having a very good time. Maybe it was my newfound pride in my survival instincts, or maybe it purely the post-panic adrenaline rush, but I was so happy at that moment. Who wouldn’t be happy, out on a boat at beautiful sea, with dolphins and music all around?
The next day, Eric emailed us the underwater pictures they’d taken of Dat, of fish, of a sunken ship or car or something, and thankfully none of me flailing like a rabid walrus. Eric said in his email that he hoped we wouldn’t give up on diving, and that the next time we came to Oahu, he would take us out again for free.
I would gladly pay to take his trip again – even the exact same trip, with the dolphins and the French and the Bulgarians by way of Boston, my new friend Casey and taciturn Capt. Joe – with everything except me trying to dive. The trip was worth the money with no diving at all.
And it finally came to me, then, why Eric had looked so sad.
I thought back on his face. It’d reminded me of another trauma – the faces of my old Physical Education teachers. Particularly, the faces they made every time I struck out or got hit in the face with a volleyball or collapsed on the track in sweaty near-tears. At the time, I’d thought that my gym teachers hated me for being such an eff-up. They hated my weakness, and they made me try again and again because they wanted to torture me.
And then I went to college and saw the people my age who went in for their P.E. teacher certifications. Saw that they really liked this physical stuff and wanted to do it for a living.
And now I see that they wanted more than that. They wanted to show little kids the joy of sports and running and doing stuff outside. And I would not see the joy in it. And they couldn’t understand that. And it hurt.
The look on Eric’s face was the same look I get on my face when I meet someone who doesn’t like to read, and I say, “Well, you just haven’t found the right book yet,” and I find what I think is the right book for them, and they try to read it, and it just doesn’t work. And I’m upset. And they think it’s because I hate them for not being like me. But it’s not. I’m just sad that they can’t feel what I feel when I do something that makes me so happy.
I don’t see myself diving again any time in the near future. But I will always be grateful to Eric for taking the time to try to show me how awesome it is. I did see the awesomeness of it in everyone else’s faces. And I was happy just watching them be happy.
It's good to fail sometimes. It's good to feel fear and then overcome it, one way or another.
Maybe next year we will go back and I’ll try snorkeling.... 6:40 PM # (10) comments
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I'm going to write some new posts real soon.Because I do have a lot to tell y'all - stories of adventure and danger, plus a bit of exciting new news.
In the meantime, feel free to check out our pics from Oahu on my Flickr page.
Labels: photos
10:00 PM # (0) commentsTuesday, May 26, 2009
[I got married on Saturday. This post is about my wedding.]the flowers
I couldn’t find fake or real flowers for my hair, and I was running out of time to do so. I asked my oldest son to go with me to pick up lemons and limes and goi, five hours before the wedding. As we rode from the grocery store to the restaurant making the goi, I thought aloud. I said, “You know what would work? Oleanders. But those peach-colored ones. If only I could find some of those. But I probably won’t… they’re usually fuschia or white….”
And then we were passing Home Depot on the right, and their parking lot was bordered by ubitiquous oleander hedges. But not the fuschia ones or the white ones – the peach ones!
I pulled over. I parked in the corner past the wheelbarrows. I left the engine running and my son watching from the shotgun seat as I disembarked and snagged several sprigs of oleander flowers.
An hour after that, I walked into the salon with a small bouquet tucked into the outside pocket of my purse.
“Ooh, what beautiful flowers!” the receptionist cooed.
“I got them from the Home Depot parking lot,” I said.
I don’t know if they believed me, but what does it matter?
the rice
The rice came out bad. Or wrong. Or something. It tasted okay to me, but as my new father-in-law painstakingly explained, “It tastes good now, but in one, two hours, it’ll be bad.”
So we threw it all away. Dumped it all into a trash bag. The early guests gasped.
My new brother-in-law sped to the restaurant where we’d gotten the goi, to pick up replacement fried rice.
Everyone looked at me, as if it had been my decision. I looked at my in-laws. My mother-in-law was upset. Disappointed. Embarrassed? My father-in-law, though, had the impassive face of a man who cold-bloodedly performs sacrifices for the greater good.
He will serve no rice before its time. Not after its time, either.
cakes
We had two cakes. The main cake (“wife’s cake,” as Dat explained it to his parents) was supposed to be Italian cream with raspberry filling, but I think it was just yellow cake, and the raspberry was combined with cream cheese. It had simple off-white buttercream frosting and edible candy pearls that surprised everyone who encountered them.
I’d wanted pineapple filling, but changed the order at the last minute out of deference to my mother-in-law, who was getting us an Asian cake (groom’s cake, “man’s cake”) so that the elder Asian palates in attendance wouldn’t go into sugar shock. I was told that the classic Asian wedding cake was pineapple flavored.
I was relieved, because I’d been afraid they’d order taro root cake. I don’t care for taro cake, but I was ready for anything.
We cut the bride’s cake first, then the groom’s. We fed each other bride’s cake. Then my sister-in-law Van very graciously took the cake server from me so that I wouldn’t be stuck serving cake for the rest of the night. Someone else manned the groom’s cake, and everyone was served sweets tout de suite.
“Oh my God, the cake is so good!” said a friend of the Caucasian persuasian, later.
“You think?” I said. “I’m kind of annoyed because I told her Italian cream, but I think she used yellow, instead.”
“What do you mean? I thought it was mocha or something.”
She meant the Asian cake. I went and tasted it. It was very moist yellow cake with whipped cream icing and mocha filling. It was very, very good. Immediately, I cut a slab of it for my dad, who’d eaten the first slice of bride cake. “Eat this one – you’ll like it,” I told him. (All dads love mocha, don’t they?)
Later, one of my Asian friends said, “Your cake was so good.”
“Wasn’t it? It was mocha.”
“What? I thought it was raspberry filling.”
She’d eaten the bride’s cake. Someone else told her, “You should have tried the Asian cake.” She said, “I never eat Asian cake. I don’t like pineapple and taro.” But we made her try it and she was happily proven wrong.
Everyone liked the cake, whichever one they tried. I was glad.
Dat and I didn’t shove cake into each other’s faces. We’ve always said that we don’t believe in that sort of thing. If you look at the pictures that got posted on Facebook, though, it does sort of look like we’re shoving. But we’re not. We were just hungry by then, I think.
Labels: culture, wedding stuff
5:29 AM # (19) commentsTuesday, May 19, 2009
something weird I just thought aboutIf someone were to torture you mildly a little – say, for information, or because he/she was a crazed stalker – would it make the torture more tolerable to have one of your favorite mellow songs playing in the background?
Probably not, I guess. Or could it depend on how much you liked the song, and how mild the torture was?
Then, afterwards, could you ever like that song again? Or would it just be bittersweet?
I would tell y’all what song made me think about this, but I don’t want to give potential crazed stalkers any ammunition.
something less weird (but related)
Since iPods have been invented, are y’all hearing your old favorite songs in a new way? For instance, do your earbuds, shoved all the way up in your earwax, suddenly help you to hear lyrics that you couldn’t hear before?
Or do you hear the instruments and harmonies more distinctly?
Maybe I just need to get my hearing checked, in general. But I have to say that I never noticed until the other day how awesome the background singers are on Todd Rundgren’s “Hello It’s Me.”
something weirder than the first part, suddenly
I went to Wikipedia to see if they’d tell me the names of the women who sang back-up on “Hello It’s Me.” Instead, they told me that “[o]n the day he shot and killed John Lennon, Mark David Chapman left an eight-track tape of Rundgren's album The Ballad of Todd Rundgren, along with other artifacts, in his New York hotel room in an orderly semicircle on the hotel dresser.”
But more fascinating and curiosity-whetting than that: “Stephen Colbert, on his Comedy Central show The Colbert Report, invited former Cars vocalist Ric Ocasek to add anyone of his choice to the ‘On Notice’ board. Ocasek chose Todd Rundgren.”
This requires further investigation. I see that Rundgren briefly took Ocasek’s place in a reformation of the Cars called The New Cars. How come no one told me this? Plus, how come nobody told me Ric Ocasek was going to be on the Colbert Show? Is it because I never watch the Colbert Show? Come on. I need people to help me out, here.
Wouldn’t it be cool if
you could have an intern (or even a paid assistant) who would spend all day finding things that would interest you? For instance, I loved the Cars and Ric Ocasek, but not so much his solo work. I loved him with Paulina P, but don’t love him enough to keep up with a fan site or anything. I’d read his Twitter, maybe, but not his blog. Meanwhile, I love the song “Hello It’s Me” but never felt compelled to buy a Todd Rundgren album.
A skilled Interest Mining
I mean – hello. It’s all right there for someone to figure out and act on, isn’t it?
As soon as I get rich, I’m putting an ad on Craigslist....
Labels: fantasies, music, pop culture
5:26 AM # (8) commentsFriday, May 08, 2009
You can tell I’m a Capricorn because…I have rigid ideas about what’s right and proper and just and polite. Like I said earlier, the role of daughter-in-law is coming back to me now like riding a bike, and I’m intent on doing it the right/proper/just/polite way. That’s just how I roll.
I’ve been dating Dat for 6 years now and it’s funny to see how marriage changes the roles, in my mind. There are ideas and roles that I never bothered to analyze until now. Like this one:
It’s okay for a bachelor son to tag along on someone else’s Mother’s Day plans.
However, once that son marries, the couple formed must take responsibility for themselves by planning their own Mother’s Day observance.
Do you agree? You know what I mean? I’m wondering now if that’s kind of sexist, if it means that once a son marries a woman, the woman has to be responsible for that stuff.
But no… I’m imagining that bachelorette daughters are also allowed to tag along on coupled siblings plans, aren’t they? And if a son married another man, I think that couple would also have to step up their game, gender notwithstanding.
Really, there’s what’s polite, and then there’s individual family tradition. I think that politeness dictates respecting the traditions of individual families. When in Rome (i.e., your partner’s family), do as the Romans do (i.e., eat or pretend to eat Aunt Lucy’s Jell-O cake and don’t bitch about it).
I like the idea of working within the other family’s traditions and adding positive contributions that reflect your own personality. (Eat the Jell-O cake, plus bring your sage flatbread for everyone to try). I’m always struck by the attitudes of the people who post complaints to Yahoo Answers and such, who say stuff like, “Help me deal with my horribly rude mother-in-law! She is forcing everyone to do a White Elephant gift exchange! My family always does Secret Santa and I told her this and I told her I would not participate in the White Elephant and now she has the nerve not to answer the phone when I call her because I need babysitting!!!” I don’t know how people can live like that. Isn’t it difficult? Isn't there a simple rule you can follow to get out of those situations... It has a catchy name... Gold... Golden Something? The "Don't Treat People in Ways That Would Piss You Off" Gold Plated Rule? Google it -- it's a good tool.
(I’m not trying to brag on my own awesomeness here… I’m trying to brag on that of my family, who raised me to be tolerant and appreciative of difference, and to be brave about trying new things. That attitude has helped me in more ways than one.)
So, anyway. I think I’m telling y’all this so you can know what’s up with Capricorn women. Did I ever tell you that every woman in my immediate family sphere, when I was growing up, was a Capricorn? (Capricorn with Taurus moon, to be exact.) You’ll either think that’s fabulous or frightening, or else you’ll disregard it entirely because you don’t believe in astrology.
I don’t know if I really believe it or not, but “Capricorn” is good shorthand for “headstrong, slightly obsessive control freak who likes shit to run right.” And I come by those qualities honestly, through nature and nurture, and I like what they’ve done for me in life.
gross story for you
I woke up last Saturday to find that Toby had thrown up on my bedroom floor. No biggie – he has a sensitive stomach but its results are generally pretty solid and easy to clean.
Armed with a wad of toilet paper, I picked up the catfood-colored mass in one fell swoop. Under it, there were feathers.
“Oh, Toby,” I thought. He’s eaten a cat toy, or part of a pillow. He often eats things he shouldn’t. I felt a little guilty for buying toys that resembled mice with bird tails. Apparently, they were irrestible.
I used the edges of the toilet paper to pick up the bits of feather, which were all brown and wet. They held fast to the carpet, but I was persistent and plucked them out one by one.
The last piece poked my finger through the tissue. Poked it hard. Hurt.
“What the hell kind of feather is this, that stabs your fingers? This isn’t safe for inclusion in cat toys!”
That’s what I thought. Then I bent farther and looked harder to see the feather closer.
It wasn’t a feather.
What do you guess it actually was?
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Did you guess “piece of plastic or metal”?
Wrong.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Did you guess “piece of bone, like maybe from a bird”?
No, but closer.
.
.
.
.
.
It
was
an
em-
effing
ROACH LEG.
A giant, nasty, effed-up roach’s leg. Legs and smashed roach wings, sticking in the carpet. Wet from Toby’s mouth and spit on the floor.
Although I was completely disgusted, I was also glad (feeling glad while shuddering and pouring alcohol over my poked finger) that I can count on Toby to dispose of giant roaches that try to attack me in my sleep.
(Long-time readers know my experiences and fictional nightmares about roaches, and will therefore have even more insight into the role that Toby’s character plays in the story that is this blog. :))
Labels: cats, domestic, wedding stuff
5:28 AM # (4) commentsMonday, May 04, 2009
things to doWhen people say “How are the wedding plans coming along?” I say “Umm… fine,” because they are coming along fine, I think, but then the plans themselves start swirling in my head and I fall into a daze. The wedding is now less than three weeks away, and there are a lot of little things to do. Lots of little things to remember.
How do you pin down a plan daze? By making a list.
Here’s my list, for people who sincerely want to know how the plans are coming along:
1. Get rings. Even though we don’t actually intend to wear wedding rings for the rest of our lives, we should have them for the ceremony, I think. So we need to buy a couple. We were supposed to go to Harwin for them last weekend, but that didn’t end up happening. Worst case scenario: we get them at Wal-Mart the night before, or make them from aluminum foil.
2. Get marriage license. We have to do that more than three days before, but less than 30 days before. Or something like that. Something with a timeline, which I’m not good at keeping in my mind. So I put it on my Outlook calendar and it’ll pop up when it’s time. Outlook calendar is the external hard drive of my brain.
3. Get more Xmas lights. Remember I told y’all about the fairyland thing? My cousin’s getting flowers and special “gazebo lights,” but we’re supplementing with white xmas lights and other secret ingredients I can’t tell you about yet.
4. Situate the cake. The cake lady was pretty breezy, last time I talked to her. I said, “Do you need me to give you a deposit or fill out a formal order form?” She said, “Your cake is small, so you can just pay me cash the day of. We’ll talk closer to the wedding and work out the details.” That made me a little bit nervous, so I put it on my Outlook calendar. (“Think about cake” with two-week reminder.) Now I’m a little more nervous because… because…
because I’d told her pina colada cake with pineapple filling, okay? First of all. Because that’s what my son suggested, and I didn’t really have a strong opinion about it.
Then… ( I wasn’t going to tell y’all this story online, or at least not in this entry, but here it goes. Apologies if you already heard it in real life, especially if I told it to you while drinking.) Dat, my beloved fiance, told me a couple of weeks ago that he’d spoken to his dad, and that his dad had asked about a few things regarding the wedding. And… Okay, I’m just gonna say it here. I’m just gonna reveal my own personal last bastion of sexism, which is that men don’t know how to plan weddings or negotiate family issues. Ever. At all. Not as well as women do, I mean. Not for their own weddings, at least. I know most of y’all married women reading this know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, go ahead and think I’m a jerk, but be glad you don’t know. So… here’s our conversation. I’m just gonna paraphrase it here and let y’all see what went down. Keep in mind, for purposes of the story, that English is Dat’s parent’s fifth or sixth language, so I can’t necessarily just call them and hash these things out on my own.
Dat: My dad said my mom said she could get us a cake, if we didn’t already have one.
Me: Oh, really? [Thinking “Wow, they’re really getting into it.”]
Dat: Yeah, he said my mom’s friend knows this really good bakery, and she could get a really nice cake. She said it might be nice to have an Asian cake, since, you know, the old Asian people might not be able to eat American cake, since it’s too sweet. So my mom was all excited and wanted to buy us a cake.
Me: That’s cool. That’s so nice…
Dat: So I told my dad to tell her no, since you already ordered a cake.
Me: What?
Dat: I said to tell her no thanks.
Me: What??? Dat! Call your parents right now and tell them we would love to have the cake and we’re very happy they offered! Jesus. Call them right now! Hurry!
Dat: But you already ordered the cake. Are you gonna cancel the order?
Me: No. Tell them… tell them we ordered the American cake, but that we still need to get a groom’s cake and were still looking for a good one, but that the Asian cake will be perfect for that.
Dat: But they don’t even know what a groom’s cake is.
Me: Then EXPLAIN IT to them. Tell them it’s an honor to provide it, and tell them it’s supposed to be representative of the groom’s personality, and that his mother is therefore the perfect person to pick it out, and that we’re so, so happy that she wants to do that for us.
Dat: [Sighing, looking bewildered.] Okay.
Me: Call them now!
Dat: I will. Oh, another thing… This is funny. My dad asked me what religion you are.
Me: What?
Dat: He said my mom’s best friend Mai [not her real name] wants to know what religion you are, because she wants to give you some gift or something, but she needs to make sure you’re the same religion as her. Or something. Funny, huh?
Me: What religion is she? She’s Buddhist, right?
Dat: No, she’s Catholic.
Me: Oh. Well, so you told your dad I’m Catholic, too, right?
Dat: No. [Smiling proudly now.] I told him you were no religion, just like me.
Me: What the… What the eff?? Dat! Why did you tell him that? Why didn’t you just say I was Catholic??
Dat: Because… uh… I wanted him to know that part of the reason we love each other is that we’re not religious, and we respect each other for not giving in to societal pressure and…
Me: Dat!! Jesus Christ!!! Call your dad right now and tell him I’m Catholic! God! Now they’re gonna think I’m Baptist or something! Jesus!
Dat: But what does it matter? You’re not…
Me: Baby, they don’t care if I go to church. They’re trying to find out more about me. Catholic means something way different from the other Christianities. Come on. You should know that! Jesus. Now they probably think I’m Baptist*… Oh, my God… Who knows what they think? I need to start watching you to make sure….
Dat: Well, I told my dad you were raised Catholic, but that now you’re like me.
Me: Oh! What’d he say?
Dat: He said okay. I think he just told my mom you were Catholic, even though I told him not to.
Me: Okay. Thank God.
Dat: [Long pause, then bravely speaking up.] I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.
Me: No, I know. You don’t. Listen – from now on, you ask me before you tell them anything. Go call your dad right now and tell him about the cake. I’m gonna sit next to you and make sure you don’t mess it up.
* Nothing against Baptists or other Protestants – y’all know I love you just as much as every other religion… but y’all also know how it rolls with old people and religion, especially at wedding time. You don’t want to misrepresent, and Baptist and Catholic are, in my mind, probably less alike than Catholic and Buddhist. It’s all in the idols and the incense, you understand.
So you either read that and felt my frustration, or you didn’t. I told that story to our friends June and Vivek (who are cross-ethnic wedding veterans) over the weekend. Vivek said, “It’s kind of like PR, isn’t it?” I said, “Exactly. I need Dat to represent my brand.” June said, “I don’t get it. I would have said exactly what Dat said.” And I was like, “Look, y’all can rebel against your parents on your own time. But right now, I need faithful representation of my brand!”
Back to the cake thing… So, when Dat’s mom said she’d get an Asian cake, I kind of assumed it’d be taro flavored. But then June heard my story and said, “She’s gonna get a pineapple cake, then, I guess.”
And now I’m thinking I need to call my cake lady and switch my cake from pineapple to… I don’t know. That’s what I have to decide. Italian cream and raspberry? That’s what I need to figure out.
5. Order goi. I think that’s how it’s spelled. Dat’s parents and my cousin Helen are going to make all the food except the goi. We have to have goi (not least because I love it) so I have to remember to order some.
6. “Hair appt.” I’m putting it in quotes because that’s a whole other ball of wax – another thing that shouldn’t have been a big deal but that’s becoming a big deal the farther we get into this. I didn’t want to get my hair done, but then I decided I’d go ahead… partially because my salon peeps are so very excited about the fact that we’re getting married, and they really want to do my hair. You’ll remember, long-time readers, that the woman who cuts Dat’s hair, Linh, believes that she’s the reason Dat and I are getting married. So we told them about the wedding, and they got excited, and Linh said Lan should do my hair, and I said okay… but then Lan said she wanted to do my makeup, too.
And I said okay. But then we drove home and Dat said, “I’m scared they’re gonna do your makeup all hardcore Asian wedding style.” Which, I think, means frosty eyeshadow. So I want to get my hair done and maybe my makeup too, but first I have to find a good picture of the exact look I’m going for, so Lan knows not to veer into iridescent territory.
And then… I don’t know. It’s a long drive over to their salon, and I don’t even know what I’m going to be doing on the morning of my wedding day yet. At first I thought I’d just do nothing – clean up the house a little and then throw on my dress and then get married real fast and then eat cake. But then my friend Ashley said something about this being the day that I get married for the rest of my life. And then I kind of started thinking that I needed to do something. Something girly or womanly or just female, I mean. Something ritualistic. We’re not having a bachelorette party – I put my foot down on that one. But maybe I need to go to a salon and have them smear mud and hot rocks on me. Maybe I need to go to a café with a couple of friends and do slam books or something. You know? Dat says he’s going to spend the morning making sushi, which makes me feel guilty. But, then again, if Dat weren’t already used to cooking stuff while I’m freaking out over superstitious beliefs, then he wouldn’t be asking me to marry him now, would he?
So, my list says “hair appt,” but that’s shorthand for “figure out a meaningful yet not-stressful ritual to mark this momentous occurrence in my womanly life.”
7. Buy liquor. That’s the part I’m looking forward to, actually.
8. Flowers. My cousin Helen is being awesome enough to buy us flowers, but I need to get with her and make decisions on that. We need real flowers and fake flowers. My dress has peach flowers. We have a gazebo thing. Those are the parameters.
9. Paint front door. Our front door needs painting. It’s currently ‘90s Hunter Green. We need to paint it for the wedding, anyway, so we figure why not just go ahead and paint it red and make Dat’s parents feel lucky? (Red door = luck. I swear Dat’s parents aren’t hardcore religious/superstitious, though. I think it’s the Catholic in me… I think “A little extra superstition can’t hurt.”)
10. Finish remodeling the effing bathroom.
11. Shoes, jewelry. Earlier in the process, I felt confident that, on the morning of the wedding, I’d open my closet and find at least one pair of shoes among the zillions in there that coordinate with my dress. Now I’m thinking I need to open my closet a few days ahead of time and make certain. Same with the jewelry. Either I have something, or I need to go to Harwin and snag some faux pearls.
12. Teeth cleaning. My future brother-in-law is a dentist.
13. Rory and Dallas outfits. Josh has an outfit because I found him a nice shirt on clearance at Macy’s last month. Rory and Dallas need outfits. Nice shirts, I mean. They grow so fast that I have to buy them new outfits for every special occasion that comes along. Come to think of it, I’d better check Josh’s new shirt and make sure he hasn’t grown out of it already.
14. Cash for judge. We don’t need it until the big day, but I don’t want to forget. Maybe I should put it in Outlook….
15. Make playlists. We need three playlists, I think. One for the ceremony, one full of mellow music for the early part of the evening, and one full of faster music for when everybody’s drinking. Ironically, that’s the part I’m most worried about. I’m worried that Dat and I will disagree and have a traditional pre-wedding blow-out over how many Delerium songs are too many. (I’m saying now that one is plenty. But I’ll freely admit that Dat might make the same argument about Pavement.)
16. Figure out the tea ceremony. We’re having a tea ceremony, all of a sudden. Which is good – his parents want us to do the traditional Asian thing, which means they consider this a real wedding and not a rebelious whim (heh). But so far I only have Dat’s explanation of the tea ceremony, which means I know nothing at all and need to figure it all out asap.
17. Appetizers. My dad says he can’t eat Vietnamese food because it reminds him of being in the Vietnam war. Most of our food will actually be more Chinese, and we’re going to have brisket and American cake, but I think I need to throw in some appetizers, too, just in case. I need something classy that I don’t have to mess with too much. I’m hoping Specs has something nice that doesn’t cost too much. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have the kids make pigs in blankets.
18. Situate the coolers. Party people know what I’m talking about. One for drinks, one for clean ice. Find the coolers. Clean them. Put them in the right places. Dat already thought ahead and got us a classy new ice scoop. He’s a good man. He’s gonna make a good husband.
19. Update my blog with wedding status so people who are interested can go read about it. At least I can cross off one thing, now.
20. Think up some way to thank everyone who's contributing. I could thank them here, but that's not enough. I will thank them here, though. I love y'all -- everyone who's helping or offering to help or even just sending good vibes and wishes. We feel it all, and we appreciate it.
And that’s about it. That’s my list – Dat has his own, I think. It says something like “buy a small snake to clear out that plumbing in the attic,” whatever that means, and fifteen or twenty other things.
I think it’s all under control. I think it’s gonna be good. I’m excited. I can’t wait.
Labels: wedding stuff
5:28 AM # (15) commentsSunday, May 03, 2009
like the ladies from Fleetwood MacWe went to the Fleetwood Mac concert here in Houston last night. It was good -- they're very good musicians. We were sad that Christine McVie didn't tour with them. But it was still good.
While sitting there watching Lindsey Buckingham tear it the hell up on his guitar, I remembered that I'd mentioned Ms. McVie and Stevie Nicks in my first book. I was talking about being a child and imagining myself a successful grown-up, and that picture, in my mind, involved looking like Stevie and/or Christine.
See, when I was a kid in the '70s, there were those two, and then there were Ann and Nancy Wilson, of the band Heart*.
That was it, for me. Those were the four women who were allowed to be in rock bands, because they were so bad-ass that they apparently got to bend the men-only rule. And they were*, therefore, my role models. I could say my goddesses or my muses or whatever, but really, only Ann Wilson reached those proportions in my mind. Ann Wilson was, to me, awesomeness personified. I was singing "Magic Man" in the back seat of my parent's car, back when I was three or four I guess because I remember my mom still being there and encouraging me -- she liked that song a lot, too.
I remember staring at the cover of my dad's Dreamboat Annie album whenever he let me, reflecting on the perfection of the Misses Wilson on it, believing that they were exactly how women were supposed to look.
I remember pulling out the inner album sleeve and staring at the beautiful, beautiful guitarist in the band with them (Roger? Steve? can't remember who I thought was so handsome) and imagining that he must be in love with either Ann or Nancy, or both. And thinking that they probably kissed him sometimes. Both of them.
(Way later, I read that I'd guessed right.)
I remember, also, playing my dad's Tusk and Rumors cassette tapes. Listening to Lindsey Buckingham sing "won't you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff" and inferring that he was probably singing either to Stevie or to Christine, and that "do my stuff" undoubtedly meant kissing.
I remember wondering if I'd ever sing and play the guitar, like my mom used to, and if a handsome guitar player would ever want to kiss me. :)
So... I sat in the Toyota Center with hundreds of other people -- all chilled out and seated, mercifully, because we're all getting too old to jump around -- and I thought about this stuff. And I knew that the people behind me were more likely remembering actual kissing that they themselves performed to those cassette tapes, since they were a little older. Same with the people in front of us. Lindsey sang that song, and three women near by jumped up and screamed and danced like they must have danced as teenagers, and I knew that those words about the tall grass had had a striking effect on them, too. In a way I felt embarrassed that when the band announced a song name, I usually didn't know which song they meant until they started playing, because I was so young back then and I just listened to the tapes all the way through, without picking favorites or even looking at their titles, like you do when it's an album you've always known and loved. But then I relaxed and realized it was okay not to know the song names.
I sat there looking all around at the hundreds of people, knowing that they all had special memories that went with these songs. Lindsey and Stevie stood on stage and told us their own memories, too. And it was -- you know -- magical and stuff.
* When I say Heart, I mean, of course, Heart in the '70s. Not in the '80s. I pretend that '80s Heart didn't exist, or was a different band with the same name. Actually, same goes for Fleetwood Mac, too. Don't tell my Gen Y fiance that I said that, though.
My favorite song by Fleetwood Mac, as played by a young man on YouTube with a really nice voice.
The kissing-in-the-grass song, with Lindsey B's remembrance intro.
Stevie on the same tour, week before we saw her, wearing the same gold shawl for "Gold Dust Woman," which made our friend June suggest that I find one for my wedding. (I look better in silver.)
Labels: getting older, music, reminiscing
7:50 PM # (4) commentsFriday, May 01, 2009
real quick - Adriana HAdriana H: I do remember you, because I always remember that day we were on the parking-garage shuttle bus together. You pointed out the window at a woman walking down the sidewalk and said something like "I like that woman's bag."
She immediately stumbled over nothing and almost fell.
You gasped and said, "Oh, no! I always give people the ojo!"
I thought that was so funny and sad at the same time, because it was obvious that you had given her the ojo.
But, at the same time, I knew you were a nice person and therefore would never use your power for evil, if you could help it.
:)
I'm glad you commented, so I could tell you that.
real quick - Robert S
Robert S: I didn't get to talk to you long after the lunch thing on Thursday. But I wanted to tell you that I listened to your story and thought you were very brave to tell it - braver than I ever get. 5:49 PM # (1) comments
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I want to be Amish.You know? I want to live in a house that I built and cook food that I gathered or raised myself. I want to sew my own clothes and knit my own blankets. I want to take care of myself and my family, and only occasionally have to weave baskets to trade for the things I don't know how to make. That's just a different way to live... a way that isn't based on spending 8 to 5, every week day, dealing with other people's egos. I don't like working with or around other people's egos. Not so often, you know?
The problem with being Amish is that you have to conform to their ideas about good taste, and you can't use electricity. Maybe I want to be a Mennonite.
Or maybe I just want to be a farmer. In the movies, when times get tough, farmers always say "Well, we're fine here -- we have enough to feed ourselves for the rest of our lives. It's the other people [their neighbors or love interests] I'm worried about."
I want to be like that -- where I rely on myself, and I'm completely reliable.
Really, I think all of that just means that I want to start my own business. Because I don't really know how to slaughter anything, and I'm too finicky to sew whole wardrobes out of calico.
Or else I'd be happy working in a room by myself, maybe. Making widgets according to written specifications. It's not the working that bothers me -- it's everything else.
It's not even about people being jerks. I could be in a building where every single person is competent and nice, and it'd still exhaust me mentally. I'm an introvert, okay? (People who know me in real life, stop telling me I'm not. I am! I want to live on a farm or work in a room alone!)
spring time
Every spring I feel restless. I want to get up and run out the door.
Last night, though, me and Dat and the kids put together one of those patio structures that Target calls a gazebo, but which is actually more like a canopy with mosquito netting on the sides. Dat and the boys put it together, actually, while I trimmed the pear tree above them. We got a new lopper (is that what it's called?) a while back and this was my first time to really use it, and it lops off the branches very beautifully. I did the pear tree so it'd be out of the canopy's way, then started on the oak tree on the other side of the back yard.
Tonight I want to finish those and then do every tree and bush in the front yard. I'd been planning to do that anyway, but now that I've felt the power of the new ... loppers... I'm excited. I love trimming the trees -- giving them little haircuts and making them feel lighter.
We have a bunny living in our front yard, randomly. When he was smaller, he fit through a gap in the garage door and so spent his nights there. Now he's bigger and we're guessing he just lives in the nandinas. We get home from work and he's there in the flower patch, eating weeds. He just watches us. We watch him. We say "He's growing." Then we go inside.
It's okay with me that this entry might be boring.
Sometimes it has to go down that way.
Life's just plugging along. Like the bunny, our wedding is growing. It's still an informal wedding in our house, but now Dat's parents are getting even more into it, and so they're inviting extra people. Which is fine -- I want them to be comfortable and stay the whole evening, and having their peeps next to them will make that possible. I'm starting to think the wedding might spill over into the front yard, though. We still have physics in which we have to work, you know.
We're gonna... transform the back yard into a fairyland or something. You know how people do that for weddings, sometimes. It involves Christmas lights, mostly. It's not difficult, I don't think. I feel confident in my fairyland transforming abilities.
At first I didn't think we were going to buy flowers, but then my cousin said she wanted to buy them for us, and now I'm thinking of many ways in which flowers will be called into service. See? It's a tumor. Weddings grow faster than rabbits.
That's all. Back to work! Happy spring.
Oh, one last thing, just to annoy my kids....
My kids didn't know that Ozzy Osborne was the lead singer of Black Sabbath. Really, now that I think about it, how would they have known?
They found out the other day because they wanted me to look for MP3s of Black Sabbath songs, and I searched for Ozzy's name. And the kids were like "No, Mom...." and then I told them, and then they were like "What? Oh. But.... I thought he was just a guy on TV." And I was like "That's why that World of Warcraft commercial shows him as the Prince of Darkness. Right? Get it?" and they were like "Oh-h-h-h...." and I saw their minds reconfigure around the world.
They're also learning which musicians are dead from ODs and which are dead from suicide, and which were ever called "the best [guitarist or drummer] in the world" and which dabbled in black magic or were rumored to have done so. That's important history, I think. Kids should know these things. Don't you agree?
Labels: domestic, parenting, venting, wedding stuff, work
5:34 AM # (6) commentsMonday, April 13, 2009
Stuck Inside a Starbucks with the Colored Pencil BluesIf a copyeditor was copyediting this blog entry, she'd probably read that title and then attach a little Post-It that said, "Did you mean 'blue colored pencil'? Please clarify." You know why? Because I'm old, and therefore all my references are
It's a Bob Dylan reference, people.
It's a Douglas Adams reference, people.
It's a Road Warrior reference, people.
It's an Eddie Murphy 1980s stand-up routine reference, people.
What if I say it's a Rock Band reference? From the video game? That one song you have to download for $1.99, that no one downloads or else no one plays because it goes on and on and on and it's hard to stick the vocal notes and the guitar is too, too repetitive?
Don't mind me. I'm just old. Someone else who's old is shaking his head, saying, "But those aren't even reference-worthy pop culture relics, Gwen."
Well, whatever.
That was going to be a story about going through a lot of trouble to arrange some time alone to go over my latest manuscript's copy edits... going through trouble to find a suitable coffee shop in which to do that in before settling on a Starbucks that wasn't even mine... stopping on the way for Special Writer Supplies (Tax Deductible)... trying the Vanilla Rooibos Tea Latte despite trepidation; finding it rather good; worrying then about its calorie count... and then, after all that, opening my copyedited ms and finding out that I was only supposed to write on it with colored pencil, not with Uniball gel pens or Pilot gel pens or any of the other gel pens I've been buying and intending to write off on my taxes.
So. Yeah.
the wedding
Yes, I'm going to post a few pictures. If they come out flattering enough. If I don't have cake crumbs all over my dress. For those who asked. Thanks for caring, you guys. :)
The plans are coming together as well as I could've hoped. Now Dat's parents are making all the food, themselves. They called Dat last week and said, "You know we're coming to the wedding, right? We told you that, right?"
Dat said, "Oh, sure. Good."
Dat's dad did that thing that he does... that thing when he cares, but doesn't want to be the cheesy, spoiling parent who shows that he cares. He asked if we were catering, and Dat said we were of course catering Asian food. Dat's dad goes, "Are you getting rice from Lucky Restaurant*?"
We weren't, but before Dat could say that, his dad gets all faux-upset and goes, "Don't get rice from them! Their rice isn't good! Even I could make better rice than them! Don't waste your money! You always waste too much money! Let me just make the rice for you!"
Dat said, "Okay, Dad."
Then his dad was like, "What else are you ordering from Lucky Restaurant*? Don't order egg rolls. Their egg rolls aren't good. Stop wasting money. Your mother's going to have to make the egg rolls for you. No, don't argue with me, son. You've got to stop this habit of wasting money on bad egg rolls, and we're going to teach you that lesson by making the egg rolls and the rice, and whatever else you were planning on getting from Lucky Restaurant* for your wedding. Also, I should probably make my special lobster noodles, because you're such a bad, spoiled, money-wasting son."
Dat said, "Thank you, Dad. Gwen loves your special lobster noodles."
Dat's dad went, "Hrmph. Well. I'm just trying to save you from wasting money, eating bad food, and throwing your life away."
His dad's routine would have had more striking effect if Dat's mom hadn't been in the background all along, calling excitedly, "Tell him I'm gonna make my coconut cake! Tell him! Have you told him yet?"
I know y'all realize that this is good news to me. But do you realize why? Because Dat's parents are retired restaurant owners (of course), and they can cook like no tomorrow.
* I'm using a pseudonym for the restaurant because their food isn't bad. It's good, and the owners are super nice. But you understand that Dat's dad had to pretend their food was bad in order to offer his gift without looking like he was fishing for gratitude.
still talking about the wedding
I found my dress, finally. It was at Talbot's, waiting for me all spring.
I would link y'all to a picture of it, but I don't want to because the catalog picture on their web site looks absolutely nothing like the dress does in real life. See, it's one of those MadMen-inspired fit-and-flare numbers, but they put it on a typically slender model, so the skirt is all sadly pleated around her hips, instead of flowing outward like it's supposed to be. Also, that dress was made for a big ol' chest, and the model doesn't suffer from one. So you can't see the dress's potential, so there's no use linking.
But I will tell y'all that it's white with peach flowers and green leaves. You have to imagine the peach flowers, obviously.
I will also tell y'all that, while I was there, I tried on a similar dress with blue roses, and it was super, duper cute, but not garden-party enough for my idea of the wedding dress. So I put it back on the rack. Then I went to the web site and saw that Talbots hadn't done that dress photographic justice, either. Then, later, I saw a picture of Michelle Obama wearing that dress. And I'm a little annoyed with her, because I saw it first. But that's okay. It looked nice on her, too. Not as nice as it looked on me, but.... No, just kidding. Just kidding, Mrs. Obama.
you would think I'd never had a wedding before or something
We found a cake lady right near my neighborhood, and she made us sample cupcakes and they tasted nice.
We found a beautiful yet suitably informal design for our invitation, and my brother-in-law-to-be is printing them up for us. (Not my dentist b-i-l... the printer one.)
And....
It's past eleven p.m.!
It's time for me to go to sleep so I can wake up and go back to work tomorrow.
No sighing. No whining. No asking for extra glasses of water, Gwen. Just go to bed.
More later, then. Always more later. Good night.
Labels: getting older, wedding stuff
10:34 PM # (14) commentsTuesday, March 24, 2009
Since my fiance and I started carpooling to work, I pushed my 8-hour work day back an hour, so that it now coincides with the busiest part of the morning commute, and also with our HOV lane’s 3 Rider Rule. For a certain portion of the morning, you have to have 3 people in the vehicle in order to get into the High Occupancy Vehicle lane. Therefore, even though we’re carpooling, we still have to pick up a stranger from the Slug Line each morning in order to make it to work in less than 90 minutes.
The Slug Line forms at the park ‘n’ ride bus stop. The bus at that stop goes into downtown on Smith Street. It goes all the way down Smith, then turns around and comes back to the park ‘n’ ride. The Slug Line is formed by people who don’t want to ride the bus – who stand in line and wait for drivers who need extra riders to meet the HOV requirements. See how it works? See the mutually beneficial symbiotic parasite relationship that’s sprung up?
We don’t work downtown. We work near downtown. So we pick up a stranger, haul them downtown, then turn around and hurry back out west, to our workplace in Houston’s beautiful Montrose.
If we drop off our passenger on Smith Street, we can easily make it to our workplace in time to enjoy breakfast at its cafeteria. If, however, we drop off our passenger anywhere past Smith, we fall into a time warp whereby each red light adds an exponential amount of minutes to our drive, and then we get to work late and can’t eat breakfast, and then we’re hungry, cranky, and sad. You see? Every minute counts on this morning commute, for us.
Some slug line drivers will take riders wherever they want to go downtown. I used to do that, before I started carpooling with my fiance. But some drivers don’t. Some drivers say “Bus route only.” Smith Street only, they mean. So we decided to start doing that, too. Before a rider gets into our car, we roll down the window and say, “We’re only going down Smith.”
Before I say anything else, let me say that this is America, and I was born here, and I believe that we all have the unalienable right to pursue happiness. If it makes you happy to wait in line at the bus stop for a free ride that’s going to take you directly to your place of work, like a hired chaffeur, that’s totally cool with me. I support your right to do that. Rock on.
You should, in turn, support my right to offer strangers rides to Smith Street only. Or to Milam only. Or to the Sam Houston Tollway, or to the moon, or to whatever point I choose. If you don’t want to accept a free ride from me, that’s fine. But don’t argue with me about it. When I say, “We’re going down Smith only,” don’t stand there and say, “I’m just going a few blocks away, to Fannin and Dallas. Why can’t you go to Fannin? It’s only going to take you a few minutes longer. Where are you trying to go?”
It’s none of your business where I’m “trying to go,” or why I might need the few minutes that dropping you off on Smith would save me. Step away from my car so that the next person in line can get into it. Wait for the next driver to come along, and see if she wants to play chaffeur.
When I very politely tell you, before you get into my car, “We’re doing the bus route only,” don’t stand there in the way and tell me, “What? Why? I don’t see what difference it makes.”
Yes, that’s right. You don’t see what difference it makes. And I don’t have to explain it to you. Just like I don’t see what difference it makes if I drop you off on Smith and you have to walk a block or two, the way you’d be obligated to do if you were riding the bus. I don’t think walking a block or two is going to kill you. And I wonder, if you can’t walk a block or two, why you don’t drive yourself to work, instead of putting yourself at the mercy of strangers on a daily basis. But I wouldn’t block traffic to tell you that, and I wouldn’t ask you to explain it to me. Especially when there’s a whole line of people behind you who understand the social contract of the slug line and who exhibit manners and common decency.
Most people in the slug line are perfectly polite. But some of them are so bizarrely entitled and rude. It would be funny to me, if it weren’t so early in the morning.
I don’t want to go on and on about bad behavior on the carpool. (Well, I do, but I won’t.) I’ll just say that, if you get into my car and I turn the air conditioning too high, it’s probably in a vain attempt to blow your cologne cloud out of my face.
Also: If you’re a blonde woman who lost a pair of glasses two months ago, or if you’re someone else who lost a pink mitten three months ago, email me. You might have left them in our car.
Weddings are like tumors.
Because they grow, you see. No matter how small you think you can keep it, it grows. But this one’s a benign tumor, so far, and I believe we’re strong enough to keep it that way.
We realized that Harris County doesn’t do real courthouse weddings. You pay for the judge’s or JP’s time, and it costs the same whether y’all meet at the courthouse or he drives to the location of your choosing. So we’re having Judge Yeoman come out to the house in the evening, right before our
The cake-and-champagne has become a dinner. Dat looked it up in his list of Cultural Heritage Statutes and realized that he’d been contractually obligated, at birth, to serve catered fried rice at any wedding in which he might eventually become entangled. So we’re doing that. (I love Asian parties because, along with the fried rice and egg rolls, they always have goi, which is vinegar-y salad with shrimp and peanuts. So we’re having that, too, of course.)
I’m relieved, because I felt a little uncomfortable about having a party and not serving a meal (Chicano Cultural Statute, Clause 57.03), and I was already planning to sneak in a brisket (Clause 57.92) next to the wedding cake… and now I can put the brisket on a nice plate, right next to the fried rice, and it’ll be beautiful.
You can’t have a dinner without extra seating, and you can’t have extra seating without building a gazebo in the back yard, and you can’t build back yard structures with remodeling the bathroom, first, and you can’t go through the trouble of remodeling if you aren’t going to wear a nicer dress than you’d initially planned. So you may as well have a photographer or three, and printed invitations.
And you can’t have relatives without opinions, and they can’t show up empty handed. So someone’s bringing flowers, and someone’s bringing lights to string through the trees, and someone’s bringing special crunk champagne flutes with our initials engraved in emeralds or something. And (more than one) someone has volunteered to do our family planning for us and tell us when we should have babies, and how many babies we should have, and what they should look like, and what we should name them. But that comes later… we told them to wait to the day after the wedding for that, if possible.
And… let me say right here, right now that I’m sorry that we can’t invite everyone we know. We wish we could, but we can’t. This was supposed to be a quick courthouse wedding because we couldn’t justify the expense of a lavish 300-guest fantasy wedding. But weddings are like tumors, so it’s gone from a practical elopement to a tiny version – a 1/10 scale model – of a real wedding. But our house is pretty small, as is our budget… so please understand that, and don’t be upset if you haven’t been invited. It wasn’t because we didn’t wish we could see you there. We wanted to invite you, but we had to invite our immediate family, first. We wanted to invite everyone we know, but there was literally no room.
art, life
Now, between books (assuming I write another book soon), I’m going through a mid-life assessment. Trying to assess where I am and decide where I want to go.
Every time I’m between books, I think up a lot of crazy ideas. But now that I’m in my mid-40s (i.e., 37), the crazy ideas seem not only more plausible, but almost obligatory. Like: “Do I want to spend the rest of my life [x thing]? No.” Like, “If I have to spend the rest of my life [x thing], shouldn’t I at least [y and z things]? Yes.”
I’m sure y’all know what I mean. Don’t you go through the same phases? Aren’t we all getting older, but also smarter and more efficient and better at making ourselves happy?
Hope so.
Labels: getting older, hating, Houston, venting, wedding stuff, writing
6:07 AM # (8) comments
