I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
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. 9:35 PM # (10) comments
Thursday, May 01, 2008
todayToday 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.
Labels: homeless people, Houston
8:56 PM # (3) commentsMonday, April 28, 2008
first day on new jobI'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.
Labels: work
7:47 PM # (1) commentsTuesday, April 22, 2008
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. 1:29 PM # (7) comments
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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. 8:46 PM # (9) comments
Thursday, April 10, 2008
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.
Labels: cats
6:12 AM # (16) commentsMonday, April 07, 2008
Talking with Artists about ArtSomething'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. 12:02 PM # (18) comments
Sunday, April 06, 2008
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. 8:05 PM # (8) comments
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
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. :) 12:07 AM # (10) comments
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Big, Good SnowballYou 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?
Labels: meta, pop culture, writing
7:25 PM # (2) commentsSunday, March 23, 2008
How I Spent My Spring Break VacationI 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. 7:46 PM # (6) comments
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
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?" 3:34 PM # (5) comments
