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.
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) commentsSunday, 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
Sunday, 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
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
what's going onWe went to the Rockets vs Miami Heat game, because one of the peeps at my job gave me last-minute free tickets, and I was like, "Let me do my duty as a single mom to boys and take my kids to this free sporting event." It was fun.
We went to the FFA rodeo carnival in Renee Zellweger's home town, and I'm happy to say that I'm all carnivaled out and won't have to go to another one for at least two years. Also, the funnel cake underwhelmed us.
We walked along the Buffalo Bayou to see Houston's new skate park, under construction, and then kept walking all the way to Sam Houston Park, which is very awesome. I hadn't been there since I was a kid, and it's increased in awesomeness since then. They have all these historical homes that they picked up and plunked down in various spots, and you can call on your cell phone to hear a recording about each home. And, maybe it's just because I'm getting older, or because I was steeped in Houston civic pride (jingoism) at an early age, but I really enjoyed hearing the recordings while scoping out the houses. Most were about people who showed up in Houston while it was still being made, who busted ass until they made enough money to buy themselves houses, and who, usually, eventually, became rich. And had streets and opera houses named after them, and the like. Very inspiring. Plus, the houses are pretty. You should check it out.
Then, in the Heritage Society Museum, they have a model general store which is awesomeness deluxe. Just the medicine section, full of boxes of Screw Worm Remover and Dr. Thatcher's Swamp Root Laxative, is worth poring over for days.
Then, they had a big old display about Jesse H. Jones, about whom I used to know nothing except that his is the name of a local high school who beat my high school in basketball all the time. But we learned all about Mr. Jones this weekend. Him, his wife, and their penchant for Art Deco furnishings. His granddaughter, Audrey Jones Beck, who looked a lot like Stockard Channing in the picture they showed us, and whose name is all over Houston's art museums.
Sometimes I want to learn all about Houston's philantropist tribes. But I want to learn it incidentally, you know? As a matter of trivia, not of study.
We walked to a man-made lake and looked at duck-made ducks.
We went to a salad buffet. I bit into brocolli slaw and my temporary bridge cracked in half. I went to my dentist, my brother-in-law-to-be, and he said it was time to get a real bridge. I tried to lie to him and say I was only eating brocolli. He expressed surprise. I said, "Brocolli with peanuts." He said, "It was a peanut." I felt ugly, lying to my b-i-l-2-b like that. But I wanted him to have a good impression of me. You know? 5:55 AM # (6) comments
Monday, February 11, 2008
Toby Updateby request, for Pixielyn
Toby seems to be doing okay, y'all. He still hides a lot, but we're starting to realize that he just gets off on hiding. For instance, he likes to hide under our bed and watch us. Eavesdrop on us.
And it seems that he and Starbuck have bonded over that. One day last week, Starbuck ran to hide under the bed, and Toby was already there. So what did she do? She hid with him. They sat under the bed, facing the same direction, for half an hour. Then, someone made a noise and Toby ran out into the living room. Starbuck ran out right next to him. I knew that she was trying to play the Chase Game with him.
The Chase Game = Whenever someone walks out of my bedroom, Starbuck runs like hell to get in front of that person and pretend she's being chased. Each Chase Game must include at least one 180-degree spin-out on the Pergo floor and one wreck into furniture or walls. Conversely, if one of us walks into my bedroom, then Starbuck has to run ahead, through the bedroom and into the master bath. She's better at this one. She has this cool trick where she jumps up on two wheels, so to speak, and bounces off the side of my bed on her way to the bathroom. It's very Matrix-y. Usually we just watch her do this and laugh, but sometimes we'll pretend to chase her around the house a little. We have to make monster noises. She has to run through the kitchen, office, hall. We have to reverse directions and chase her back through hall, office kitchen. She ends up under the dining room table, panting and with gleaming eyes.
So anyhow. Toby ran out from under the bed, and Starbuck ran with him with a look on her face that clearly said, "Oh, yes, now is the time we play the Chase Game!" And Toby stopped and looked at her like, "Why are you running, too?" And she looked at him like, "C'mon!" And he looked at her like, "I don't understand this person." And then he went and ate some food.
So, since then, Starbuck's been hiding with him and trying unsuccessfully to teach him the Chase Game. But sometimes she still gets pissed off at him, too. He likes to be petted, but we have to drag him out of hiding, first. The other day I was petting him and he drooled on me.
Here are a few more pics, for those of y'all who missed them. More soon.
Weather Wishes
I'm sending sympathy and condolences out to the tornado survivors in the South. I hope y'all get all your stuff rebuilt and recovered as soon as possible. And sympathies to the blizzard/snow-having people in the North -- I'm sorry y'all are cold and have to shovel snow.
Weekend Adventures
The weather was nice here, so we wanted to do something outside. Of course, so did every other human being in Houston. So we went to Hermann Park, which is right next to the zoo, the biggest museums, and a bunch of other stuff. And of course, there was no parking. Because never, since I was born, has there been enough parking at Hermann Park. Ahem. Mayor White, please fix this. I'm not mad at you anymore. I mean, please feel free to finish the skate park first, because that's going to be completely awesome. But then, right after that, please add some parking to the zoo area. Thanks.
So we couldn't park there, and we were sad. And then I said, "Oh, wait -- weren't we going to go to the Arboretum?"
Yes. So we did. And it was awesome. I'd only been there once before. On that first time, we got lost on the trails among the swampy woods, and it was hot. But it was still fun. This time, the weather was perfect and we took a little trail map with us, so it was completely effing awesome. And it was free -- well, donation requested, not required. And there was a ton of parking. Because no one ever goes there, because it's kind of educational and nature-y, and that turns people off, I guess. I don't blame them. It turned me off at first, too. But then I gave it a shot, and it was cool for reasons I didn't expect. It's like, you walk twenty feet into the swampy woods, and that's it. You're gone. You're in the middle of the wilderness. You're a hobbit, and Gandalf's waiting for you, over there by that creepy tree.
I used to think the pond was the coolest part, but then we saw the swamp, and it's shockingly beautiful. It's creepylicious, with gnarly trees reaching out of the water, and the water covered with pale green algae or scum or pollen. It's kind of like the swamps around the bayou, but without the homeless people or the smell. I can't explain. You just have to go.
Funny thing -- I joked with Tad that we should have our wedding there, and I could wear my Halloween fairy costume. But now I see that they do, in fact, host weddings.
If you're thinking of going, go before it gets hot. So, before May. This weekend was so completely perfect -- one of those unrealistically perfect Houston weather times. Sunday we went to another less frequented parky area, which I will always call Transco Tower, even though that hasn't been its name since I was a teenager. Transco Tower is awesome because it has a local landmark of a fountain, that looks just like this, except with a cross section of everyone in Houston standing in front of it, damp, trying to get a photo. And at least one quinceanera with her court of 14 teen couples. Always.
Does this sound like I'm trying to boost Houston tourism? I'm not -- y'all know I just love my hometown, and it's fun and inter-webby to show y'all what we did via links. I keep meaning to take my camera, but it's old and therefore too heavy to haul in my purse. Pulls at my shoulder muscles, you know.
okey dokey
This entry has been for people who really care about the details of my life, in the context of nothing. Sometimes I feel weird posting a lot of that stuff, because I imagine that no one cares -- that y'all come here for hard-hitting judgmental thoughts, ranty feminist screeds, and tasteful book promotion, instead -- but hey, what's the point of having a blog if I'm not going to yammer about life details, at least a little. Right?
Back to the work week. Sighz.
Labels: cats, domestic, Houston, wedding stuff
5:41 AM # (5) commentsMonday, January 28, 2008
I got a new cat today.Our cat, Starbuck, seems lonely. Sometimes on the weekends we all spend the night elsewhere, and when I come back, she seems displeased at having spent the night alone. So I decided to get another cat, a kitten, maybe, so she wouldn't be alone. And so she wouldn't spend the rest of her life without seeing another feline, since she's an indoor-only cat and the only living thing she sees besides us is the bastard squirrel who keeps eating the buds off my gerber daisies.
So we went back to the Harris County Animal Shelter, which I like going to because it's like the zoo, but stinkier and free. With the help of awesome volunteers Linda and Nela, after two days of hemming and hawing, we picked out a little orange boy kitten with gold eyes. They told us he wouldn't be ready for release until yesterday. So we went home and thought up a name for him: OJ Smarfson. (Tad picked that. OJ because he's orange, and Smarfson because Tad originally wanted to name him Smarf but I said no.)
Yesterday we went to pick up OJ Smarfson and discovered that, overnight, he had turned evil. Suddenly, his mellow personality was replaced with bloodlust, and he tried to scratch us when we touched his cage. We didn't want a(nother) violent orange boy cat, because we already have scars from the last one. So we left OJ Smarfson there.
In the lobby, we stopped off in the Cat Display Room to play with the grown-up cats there. There were five or six of them playing in cat cubes or on these really fancy wooden cat condos that someone evidently crafted and donated to the shelter. Three of the cats were especially friendly, and swarmed around my son Rory's legs like pigeons on Jack in the Box tacos. One of those friendly cats was very, very big. He dwarfed the others, but was very friendly, like a dog. "I wish we could get this giant cat," said Rory, as the giant cat tried and failed to cuddle on Rory's lap. He was too big and had to climb Rory's chest like a tree, instead.
"Yeah, I like that one, but we're supposed to get a kitten, remember?" I said.
As we drove home, we talked about the awesomeness of the giant dog-like cat, and the way he was gentle with Rory and all the other cats, including the bitchy longhair who didn't want anyone else on her condo. I said that, if we owned the giant cat, we would name him Toby. "He does look like a Toby," Tad said.
We talked seriously about getting him, then, and wondered if Starbuck would get along with a bigger cat any worse than she'd get along with a kitten. The day before, the shelter volunteers had given me tips on introducing cats to one another. They'd talked about sectioning off the house for weeks at a time, about rubbing washcloths on the cats and then letting them get used to each other's smells, and etc.
And those sounded like good ideas, but I already knew I wasn't going to do all that. I've had a lot of cats in my life and I know how they are. They just deal with each other. They take a while to warm up to each other, and then they get over it. Sometimes, even cats who've lived together for years will bicker or fight or ignore each other. They're kind of like people, or kids. I figured, if I've managed to introduce three babies to my family over the years and no one's killed anyone else yet, the cats will probably be okay.
We decided Starbuck would be okay, and that her personality and Toby's would be compatible, and that they might eventually fall into platonic love.
I went back today to get Toby. The lobby of the shelter stinks really, really bad like stale urine. It hits you hard when you first walk in, and then you get used to it. The security guy at the door joked with the visitors ahead of me, saying that they sold that smell in incense form. As I signed in, Nela, the most expert cat volunteer, walked in behind me. I told her I wanted to adopt Toby. She was like, "Let me go get a carrier."
I feel bad for the volunteers because they love all the animals, and they know how little chance each one -- especially the older ones -- has of getting adopted. Toby is only 2, which is, like, college age for cats, but he can't compete with scads of kittens as far as cuteness is concerned. I notice that when I'm considering kittens, Nela encourages me to take my time and decide. When I say I want a grown-up cat, though, she says, "Let me get a carrier."
I stood at the cashier's window and watched Nela box Toby up. She brought him out to me and said that he seemed to know what was happening, because he got into the box and sat right down. I wondered, like I did the time before, if the cats really do know what's happening -- that they're going someplace better. It would be kind of cool if they did, but also kind of sad, because then the ones not chosen would be jealous. I imagine that's how it is for the dogs -- the dogs not chosen get sad. You can tell that the smarter, more experienced dogs try to act especially good when visitors come to see them. Because they want to be chosen. I always look at the dogs, too, even though it breaks my heart. But they have way more volunteers working with them than the cats do, and they get to go outside every day, so I guess it evens out.
Toby was very good throughout the long drive home to my suburb. When we brought him into the house, Starbuck sniffed his carrier until I thought her nose would bleed. Then she and Toby looked at each other like reflections in a mirror (you know how cats don't seem to recognize their reflections as cats), and then Toby went and got under my bed.
And then we noticed that he stank really, really bad, just like the lobby of the shelter. I didn't know if he'd tolerate a bath, like Starbuck periodically does, but I had to try because, seriously, he reeked.
He didn't mind the water, but hated the tub, itself, so I shampooed him on the bath mat and mopped up with towels afterwards. He let us dry him and then walked around happily damp, unlike Starbuck who will spend hours trying to lick herself dry.
And then they saw each other again, and this time Starbuck hissed at him. Toby made this face like, "Note to self: That chick doesn't like me," and walked away. Starbuck kept her tail bushed up after he'd gone, but let me pet her. She was like, "I'm your cat, remember?" even though she normally can only fit us in for pettings when we make reservations.
That was earlier today. Since then, Toby's been hiding under Josh's bed. If I go in that room, he comes out enthusiastically to be petted. But he hasn't eaten or gone to the bathroom yet. I brought him out and tried to get him to eat from the separate bowls we'd set up for him, a room over from where Starbuck eats. Wouldn't you know that Starbuck was at his bowl, sniffing his food? I set him down and she acted like a complete bitch, hissing at him until I had to shoo her away with my foot. Poor Toby sniffed his food but couldn't eat it. Then he went back to the bedroom.
I'm disappointed in Starbuck, but I'm sure she'll get over it, soon. Then, next thing you know, we'll be making a Match.com-commercial-style video about her love for Toby.
Or else, if not, she can be my cat, and Toby can be the kids' dog.
Pictures of Toby and Starbuck on Flickr, for those who have read this far and still want more info. :) 6:00 PM # (10) comments
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Life SkillsWhen I was in third grade at Roosevelt Elementary School, we had a very good teacher named Mrs. Dorothea Terry. Ms. Terry taught us a lot of important things outside the normal, Houston Independent School District sanctioned curriculum. I remember that whenever she had to discuss anything delicate or sexual, such as the time we read Johnny Tremain and someone asked what castration meant, she would first say, "If any of you feel like you can't handle this subject matter -- like you might feel uncomfortable and that will make you giggle or whisper -- please feel free to go into the hall and I'll call you back when we're done discussing it." No one ever left the room, and everyone understood that laughing during such talks was a mark of immaturity.
She taught us how to be good audience members. We were planning a fieldtrip to see The Nutcracker, and so she showed us the proper way to applaud. And I'm sure the lesson encompassed more than that, but all I specifically remember is the clapping, all of us lightly striking our left palms with the fingers of our right hands.
***
Since graduating from public school, I've noticed that a lot of adults in Texas missed out by not spending third grade in Mrs. Terry's class. Whenever I give a reading at a community college, for instance, I notice that a lot of my audience has obviously never attended a reading before. Either they'll pointedly avoid making eye contact with me and the other speakers, or else they'll look at us with facial expressions I'm sure they wouldn't consciously make in other situations. Or they'll quietly talk to each other during the reading, as if they're at the movies, discussing people on a screen. Or, saddest, they'll laugh at something that's meant to be funny, but they'll cover their mouths, thinking they're not supposed to.
I've been to community colleges where the professors treat the students like disabled high school kids. If I'm reading and someone starts giggling and whispering in the back, I'll do exactly what our teachers used to do to us in elementary school. I'll say something like, "Am I interrupting your conversation? Should I pause so you guys can leave the room?"
And then, afterwards, these students' professors will apologize to me and say, "It's hard for them... They come from different backgrounds... They don't go to many readings..." As if any of that is an excuse for rudeness. And I'll feel sorry for those professors and wonder what they put up with in their classrooms every day.
Sometimes I'll speak to a class that's well enough behaved, but very inhibited. And I'll interrupt my own reading/seminar and tell the students that it's okay if they want to laugh, or gasp or scoff, because authors expect listener reactions. I'll tell them, during the question and answer session, that they can ask whatever they want, and not only questions that sound teacher-approved. Because we're all adults, and a reading is meant to be enjoyed. And then the students will loosen up, and we have fun.
And afterwards, their professors will tell me, "Wow, they really enjoyed your reading!" and that they're going to do a class on audience ettiquette, or on how to interview authors, and that they're going to take their classes to more readings in the future.
A lot of times I'll do a reading for one particular class that's reading my book, and then other classes who aren't reading my book will show up to my reading -- required attendance for credit. So, when I go to community colleges or high-school-age events, the first thing I like to ask is how many people in the room want to be writers. Usually, only one or two people will raise their hands. Then, I'll ask how many people are there against their will, and most of them will raise their hands.
In those cases, I shift from talking about my writing to talking about acheiving one's goals. And that's when I get a lot of questions from people who want to be DJs, nurses, entrepreneurs, and etc. And, the more I do these kinds of readings, the more strongly I feel that I have a personal mission. It is to let kids know that they're allowed to do stuff.
You know? Because that's the big undercurrent in all these situations I'm describing to you. I think that a lot of kids are raised with sentiments like, "You don't go to plays and readings. Only those people go to plays and readings. Therefore, I don't expect much of your behavior on the few occassions where you're forced to go to a play or a reading." And how easily does that attitude cloud one's whole life?
"I go to community college. Only those people go to the university."
"I don't want to be an artist. Only people like that get to be artists."
"I'm not going to speak up. Only people like her are supposed to speak up."
I look at Facebook and see all these kids from Choate and Marymount bleeting out their opinions of the presidential candidates, all sexist and misspelled and uninformed, and I wonder where the sexist, misspelled, uninformed comments from 5th Ward and East LA and Compton students are. You know? No, I don't wonder, actually. I know. They're frozen in those students' heads, because only those other kids are allowed to spew silliness, right?
I'm not trying to brag, but I'm a very popular speaker at local community colleges, and the audiences there enjoy the hell out of my readings. I enjoy talking to them, too. My favorite part is after the reading, because -- inevitably -- a few people will come up to me and say, "I really do want to be a writer, but I didn't want to say it earlier." Or, "I write all the time at home, but I didn't think that counted until you said so just now." And, even if I don't sell many books at those readings, I'm always glad I went.
A while back I went to read to a bunch of junior high girls at a local community center. We ended up talking not about my book, but about applying for high schools. We spent more than half an hour erasing misconceptions about who's allowed to apply for better public schools, who's allowed to ride the school bus, who's allowed to get on the Internet and look for information, who's allowed to be smart without worrying about fitting in, who's allowed to want a little more success than their parents had. We didn't talk about writing at all. (But, even so, at the end, someone came up and whispered to me that she wanted to be a writer.) And I was glad I went. If all I ever taught someone was that she was allowed to do a little more, that would be enough for me.
***
Every time I go to one of my son's junior high band recitals, I resent most of the other parents because they're very rude. They talk and yawn during the performance. Between pieces, they make insensitive remarks. The band teachers wear suits and dresses. Our kids wear tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and vests. I wear whatever I wore to work that day ("business"), but then half the parents are in shorts, flip-flops, undershirts, baseball caps. Their hair uncombed. Their teeth full of food.
I used to hate them, but now I just pity them. You know why? Because no one taught them better, because no one ever thought they'd grow up to go to plays or readings or even junior high recitals.
More than that, I pity them because their kids will go places that these parents won't. And their kids might keep things from them, might say things like, "No, I didn't invite my parents to see me play in Boston, because you know how they are. They never go to things like that. There's no use even trying to teach them how to behave."
But, then again, that might not be so bad. I'd rather have my kids do things that I'm too ignorant to understand than have them be afraid to do things, because I never told them they were allowed. 12:05 PM # (24) comments
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Thrift Store Story 1: Mother Daughter BondingI was at a Goodwill in another town, eavesdropping on strangers.
Mom: How about this one?
Daughter: Na-a-a-ah...
Mom: Well, I know it's kind of boring, but it also looks professional. You have to look professional.
Daughter: Ye-e-eah...
Mom: Okay, so you have your black skirts... How about, instead of a jacket, you try something like this? Because it still looks professional, but
it's not as formal as a jacket. Cute, huh?
Daughter: Kind of, yeah.
At this point, I can't resist peeking at them. Both 30-something mom and teen daughter are tall and thin, in t-shirts and very short shorts, with long, long, very blonde hair. They're talking loud and I can't help but form the impression that the mom wants everyone around to hear what a good parent she's being. I look to see what professional item of clothing the mom is holding. It's a black vest with shiny black lining-fabric back.
Mom: See? That looks real professional. Trust me, I know these things.
Daughter: You know my friend Melissa? The other day, she found a pair of Hollister jeans here.
Mom: Really?
Daughter: Yeah. And she wore them to school!
Mom: Really? Wow.
Thrift Store Story 2: Little Girl Free to Good (or Any) Home
I'm shuffling through the sweaters at my second-favorite mega segunda. A little girl, maybe 2 or 3 years old, ambles near in a pink dress, with two filthy baby dolls cradled in one arm, and with green snot hovering above her lip.
Girl: Mami...
My heart: [Crack!]
Girl: Mami!!
Me: [approaching little girl] Are you lost? Do you know your mom's name?
Girl: [Incomprehension.]
Me: [in Spanish] Let's find your mom. What is your mom's name?
Girl: [pause, then] Mami.
Me: What color is your mom's hair? What color is your mom's hair?
Girl: [Points to her own hair, her own dress, her baby doll's dress.]
I lead the little girl around the store, pointing at each oblivious woman we see and asking in Spanish and English if this is her mother. The little girl shakes her head no at each one. For a while, a pre-teen girl helps us out, but then returns to her own mother's side. I start to worry. The little girl has stopped worrying by now and seems content to follow me around like a stray cat. My boyfriend comes over.
Tad: Did you find a kid?
Me: Yes, and I'm starting to totally freak out. This one can't even talk, and we've looked at, like, every single woman here, and she says none of them are her mom. What if her mom left? What if...
The little girl stands at my side, unconcerned, chewing on her hair. A little boy, about 4 or 5, walks up. His runny nose serves as family resemblance as he grabs the little girl by the arm.
Boy: There you are. Come on.
Me: Are you her brother? Do you know where y'all's mom is?
Boy: Yeah. My mom told me to find her.
He hauls the little girl away. Curious, my boyfriend and I follow at a polite distance. The kids' mother is younger than I expected. She stands over a shopping cart, with a companion, in the middle of an aisle. She and her companion wear tight jeans, sleeveless tops, and tattoos. The mother is talking to her companion and into a cell phone, simultaneously.
Mother: That's what I'm saying. I told that stupid fucking bitch!
Her friend: Hell, yeah!
Mother: Fuck that stupid bitch! I'll beat her ass down! [Looking down, noticing her children. To boy:] Now you watch her. Don't let her run off!
Tad and I exchange looks. The little girl looks over at me and waves happily. I wave back and Tad and I resume minding our own business in another aisle. I look through racks and racks of sweaters, skirts, suits, shoes. Every time the little girl crosses our path with her family, she waves and says, "Hi!" or "Bye!"
Me: Bleh. That makes me sad. I should have just stolen her.
Tad: That's probably why she wasn't looking for her mom too hard. She was probably hoping her mom would leave her and she could go home with you.
Me: Maybe. I would have had to give her a bath first thing, though. And some antibiotics.
Tad: Right. But, you know... you already have the cat.
Thrift Store Story 3: I Am Rich and Famous. Dammit.
I'm at the same thrift store as the one in the story above. As usual, I'm combing through the pink sweaters, looking for one that doesn't have holes or scuff marks or a Faded Glory tag.
Random chick passing by: Excuse me. Do you shop here often?
Me: Uh... I shop here. [Thinking she's doing a survey or something.] Why?
Chick: Oh, um. Because... do they have tank tops here? I mean, this is my first time here, and I'm kind of looking for a tank top. But, like, none of these tops are tank tops. Do they not sell tank tops? Do you know where they are? Do they have them in a special section or something?
Me: They're in the next aisle. See that rack of sleeveless tops, under the sign that says Sleeveless Tops?
Chick: Oh, okay. Cool. Thanks!
She walks away and joins a friend, who is over by the tank tops. I flip through the pink sweaters and try not to feel self-conscious. My boyfriend Tad walks up.
Tad: There's nothing here.
Me: You always say that. You're not looking hard enough.
Tad: I don't feel like looking hard. I'm not in the mood.
Me: Whatever. Okay, listen. This chick just walked up to me and started a random conversation, and I think she knew who I was.
Tad: Someone from your work?
Me: No, I mean someone who reads my blog, or who read about me in the Chronicle or something. You know, because I just talked on my blog about thrift-store shopping, and I mentioned this store? Or because the Chronicle just did that article and they said where I lived?
Tad: Hmm. I guess.
Me: No, seriously. I'm starting to be able to tell now. Because they always start completely random conversations. Like that chick who talked to me in the bra section of Ross? Or that other chick who started talking to me about fountains at Home Depot that day? I mean, I know it sounds conceited as hell, but I really think they're talking to me because they recognize me from the blog.
Tad: How, though? You only have that one picture of yourself on your blog, and it doesn't even look like you.
Me: Because, like, I don't know. I mean, how many Caucasian chicks in Houston have Asian boyfriends and three kids?
Tad: Yeah... I think you're just being paranoid, though. I think they're just being friendly.
Me: I'm not being paranoid. I'm not saying they're stalking me or that it's bad or anything. I'm just saying that I think they recognize me and, if they do, why don't they just say so? You know? Because, otherwise, I'm wondering why I'm such a magnet for chicks starting completely random conversations.
Tad: People do that, though. They start random conversations. People do it to me all the time.
Me: Oh, okay. So you think I'm just being paranoid. Or narcissistic.
Tad: No, no, no. Of course not. Baby, if you say people recognize you, then of course they recognize you.
Me: Okay, don't patronize me.
Tad: No, sure... Why wouldn't they recognize you? You're famous. You're like, a famous writer and blogger and whatnot. You're my famous baby.
Me: [Turning away, sighing.] I am famous, dammit. You just can't handle the truth. You're jealous. You can't hang with being the boy-toy of a celebrity. I always knew it would come down to this -- that my immense blogging fame and writing success would tear us apart. I didn't want to believe that our love was so flimsy, so susceptible to petty envy. But I should have known better. That's why they say it's lonely at the top. It is. I see that now. This thing with my fans seeking me out at thrift stores, it's tearing us apart. That's the price I'm paying for my high-flying lifestyle...
Tad: What's that, bunny? What'd you say?
Me: I said, let's go get some gelato now.
Tad: Okay.
Labels: eavesdropping, Houston, meta, my sex life
12:03 PM # (7) commentsSaturday, November 24, 2007
reminder of what I have2007 has been a disappointing year for me, for various reasons beyond my control. A year of rejections, failures, unexpected expenses and medical dramas. I'm calling it, in my mind, a year of learning experiences and character strengthening.
The one thing I have been able to control is my own body--namely, how much I eat and how much I exercise. (And I know that's the seed of anorexia: focusing on controlling your own body when you feel powerless to control anything else. But don't worry; I'm very, very far from that.) So I've failed at increasing my income this year, but I succeeded at decreasing my weight.
So I need new clothes. And I'm broke. And I have a whole wardrobe of clothing that doesn't fit me anymore. So I thought I'd have a garage sale. But I couldn't, because my neighborhood association won't let us. And no one else I knew could get it together to have one... and selling clothes on eBay or Craigslist is too much work for too little money... But I was hoarding these bags of too-big clothes, thinking I'd sell them one way or another and then use the money to buy new clothes.
And then, the other day, my friend Letty, who works for the local women's shelter, called me up. I was walking around the clearance dress racks at Macy's when she called, in fact. She said, "Do you still have those clothes that are too big for you?"
I said yes. She said, "Would you consider donating them to the shelter? They just called me and said they desperately need clothes in that size."
I said uh, yeah, I guess, maybe. She said, "You don't have to give them all of it. They just really need work clothes and underwear."
I said, "Underwear? Y'all take underwear? I was just gonna throw mine away. I never donate underwear because that's kind of weird, you know? I mean, who wants old underwear?"
She said, "Well, sometimes women who come to the shelter have just been raped. So their underwear gets cut off of them when they're being examined. And, you know, we have clothes to give them, but we don't always have underwear--especially in the bigger sizes. So, you know, they just come to us..."
And I said okay, and I went home and got all the clothes together. And I went through my underwear drawer and pulled out the stuff that was fit to give away, and I tried not to think about how horrible it would be to have your underwear cut off, and then to move to a new place, full of strangers, with borrowed clothes and no underwear on your body. Or to try to start a new life with nothing but borrowed clothes, or literally no clothes at all. Not a wardrobe full of things that are a little too big, not a closet full of things you're a little bit tired of, but literally nothing.
Houston Area Women's Shelter needs larger sized work clothing and underwear, y'all. Especially sizes 20 and up. And winter coats. And toilettries. And diapers. And everything, all this stuff we take for granted.
winter storage
I gave Letty the clothes and then we had lunch, and we talked about a lot of stuff. I've known Letty since Kindergarten, and we don't have lunch as often as we should, but when we do, we always end up discussing massive things. Because we are massive-issue-discussing friends. Which is good. It unblocks our minds.
One of the things we talked about was fear of poverty versus the ennui of middle class existence. Most people educated in America know of middle class ennui, because we read about it. It's like, the prevailing experience of our literary canon, right? So I knew about it, but I didn't really understand it until I became middle class.
I just bought a house, and Letty's agonizing over whether or not to buy a house, and we both see now what it is--a huge financial commitment to a lifestyle you're not sure you want to live for the life of your mortgage. And, if you fail (foreclose), then you aren't just a failure--you're a failure with worthless credit. Marked for life.
And Letty's been wanting to go to grad school, but says she's afraid to be broke. AKA poor. (I hope she doesn't mind me telling you this. Letty, tell me if you mind and I'll delete.)
Assuming everyone reading this has a little money, and therefore access to a computer and time to read this entry: Did you grow up poor? If so, then you know what it means to be afraid of returning to poverty. Did you grow up rich or middle class? If so, know that all your friends who grew up poor and scratched their way up are secretly, desperately afraid to turn poor again.
So I understood what Letty was saying, on the house count and on the grad school count. And I told her that, even though having a house makes me completely broke (AKA land-poor), I don't mind because this time, I'm controlling my poverty. This time, I look at my budget and make conscious decisions. There's no shame in being broke--in eating ramen noodles, buying thrift store clothes--if I've made the decision to do so in order to hold on to my house. And, if I decide to sell my house and go back to renting, it'll be a slight failure, but again, something I controlled.
So... yeah.
It's winter now in Houston, finally. And it's the holidays. That means that, all over town, people who grew up poor are experiencing PTSD, and coping with it in various ways. Turning the heat up high. Not turning the heat up at all. Spending lots of money at the mall. Not spending money at all. Clinging to family. Avoiding family. Reliving old habits and trying to make sense of them. Creating new habits and trying to move on.
I turned up our heat a little today, because I think it's worth paying to be warm. I've been taking things out of storage--things people gave me that were kind of a pain to store all summer when we lived in an apartment. Tea pot. Coffee press. Warm slippers. Sweaters and coats.
And you know what? I'm glad I have these things, and people who love me enough to give them. And I'm especially glad that I have this little snail-shell house. Meaning it's heavy on my back, but it holds all the things that we need. In all senses of those words.
DJ Drama
Last night we went to local club Rich's to see Felix da Housecat. Because he always puts on a good show, and Rich's is our favorite venue. And, guess what? Felix wasn't there. There was a hand-written sign on the register saying he was in the hospital, and that cover would be free, and that our pre-purchased tickets would be good for when Felix rescheduled.
I hope he isn't really hospital-worthy sick. I hope he just felt like flaking. But if he's really sick, I hope he gets well soon.
The opening act DJs did their best to make it up to us. They did a pretty good job.
After Rich's, we went to South Beach. South Beach is one of Houston's premier gay clubs. The reason we go there is JD Arnold. JD Arnold is, pretty much, Houston's best DJ. He used to work at Rich's for years and years and years. Then he went to South Beach (which is, incidentally, the phoenix risen from the literal ashes of hate-crime-ruined Heaven, as some of you will remember).
And then, JD Arnold left South Beach, apparently. Recently, I think. Because he was there last time we went, several months ago, and now he's not.
"What happened to JD Arnold?" I asked the door guys.
"Who?" they said. "Who is that?"
"Hey, what happened to JD Arnold?" I asked a bartender who was running around.
"Who?" he said, just like the caterpillar with the hookah in Alice in Wonderland.
A bunch of employees gathered together, then, and complained about some customer hitting on or failing to hit upon one of their number. I was kind of tipsy, so I said it again. "Hey, you guys, what happened to JD Arnold?"
They looked at each other, made faces, rolled eyes, and said in a haughty chorus, "Who?"
Then I got it. "Y'all are mad at him, aren't you? Y'all are, like, never saying his name in this club again?" They lifted eyebrows and scattered like feathers on the wind.
I still don't know what happened. South Beach hasn't updated their web site, either.
Last month we went to see DJ Sasha at Bar Rio. I know none of y'all listen to the music I listen to, and y'all probably just mentally blip over my long descriptions of the DJ shows. But, if you've read this far, know that in my fantasies of a post-lottery-winning wedding, I'm wearing a fuchsia silk cheongsam with embroidered peonies, and Sasha is DJing our reception. Got me?
A man called Spooky opened up that night, and he did very well. He's an older guy, looks like an extra on a Lord of the Rings set, in t-shirt and jeans. Not ranking on his looks at all--just saying he didn't look like you might expect a DJ to look. But he played like a mofo, so we loved him with all our hearts, right at that moment.
Then Sasha came out, and I was so, so excited, and I was right up there in the front where I could breathe his air...
... and he played this set that he later described as minimalist (in response to complaints, I think), but which I would describe as easy-listening techno. And I was sad, and disappointed. And I respect that he wants to try new stuff, and that he may be chilling out as he gets older, but, dude...
don't come to a dance club and play undanceable music.
Now I'm thinking JD Arnold will have to play at my wedding. If anyone can find him. If he hasn't been run out of Houston by the local velvet mafia, I mean.
crafting, baby
I painted a bunch of paintings--commercial interior dec stuff like they teach you to do on Trading Spaces--and they came out nice, and I'm happy. And it felt good to make stuff off the top of my head, with no pressure.
Try some crafting today. Start a holiday tradition. Put your dinette set in storage and make your family a crafting room. Let the cat help by stepping all over your drying canvases. (Because, of course, mine did. Thanks, Starbuck!)
Okay, that's all. More later. Thanks for listening.
Labels: Christmas, domestic, fantasies, Houston, Letty, psychobabble, vanity, venting
3:35 PM # (17) commentsThursday, September 13, 2007
Missed Connections, Missed Socialization LessonsIf you don't already read the Craigslist Missed Connections for your town, you totally should start doing so. For those of you who aren't familiar, Missed Connections are the section of the classifieds in which people post ads to specific strangers. Like, if you met someone at a club last night and she gave you her number, but you lost her number, and you also forgot her name, because you were completely wasted, then you might want to post a Missed Connection ad in search of her.
Or, like, if you saw a handsome stranger at Home Depot, and he smiled at you in an inviting way, but then a meteor hit the earth and everybody died, preventing you from getting his phone number, then you might like to post an ad in the Missed Connections section of the paper in the afterlife, in case he sees it there and wants to hook up.
I periodically read Houston's Missed Connections, not because I suspect that any stranger might have fallen in love with me at a nearby Starbuck's, but because they're pathetically hilarious. The majority of them fall into five main types of sadness, which I will chronicle for you here.
1. Way Overconfident Men
You: Hot blonde, about 5'6" and 114 lbs, wearing a denim skirt that showed off your cute pink and white striped panties when you bent over to pick up your baby's toy. Me: Interested in getting to know you better, possibly for more than just a one-night stand. Contact me ASAP.
2. Women Whose Insecurity Renders Their Ads Pointless
I saw you again last night at Memorial Park. You're the bike cop with the impossibly beautiful eyes. You probably wouldn't be interested in me, since my BMI is 19% and I have cellulite on the underside of my buttocks, and my cup size is only B and I can't yet afford the plastic surgery I so desperately need. And you're probably married, too. Or gay. But I just wanted to post this ad to tell you that you're gorgeous, and seeing you each afternoon is the highlight of my day, and whoever your wife (or partner) is, she (or he) is very, very lucky!
3. The Very Promiscuous
We met briefly last night at MBar. You wore a pale blue American Apparel summer shirt, I wore a white Abercrombie tank and blew you in the second stall. Get in touch with me -- I need to share test results.
4. The Desperate High School Shout-Out
Anybody know Belinda F. from Austin High class of '89? If so, please tell her to call Reynaldo from her 3rd period Fundamentals of Math. It's an emergency. I need to know how you're doing, Belinda. I need to know what you've been doing since graduation.
5. The Unintelligible
To: You Know Who. From: The One You Hurt. My question is, Why? Why did you do it? No one had to know about it but you and me, and her. Why did you have to destroy everything, including my heart? And my credit?
Have you ever posted a Missed Connections ad? Do you know anyone who has? Do you know anyone who actually found love (or sex) through one? Please share.
New Banks = KHAN!
My boyfriend and I get our hearts broken, locally, on a weekly basis. Why? Well, there's a lot of development going on in Houston lately. Lots of new shopping centers are going up like wildfire. We see one going up near work, and what do we do? We dream.
Him: "Maybe it's a new restaurant. Maybe it's something good, like sushi or pho. Or sushi-pho fusion."
Me: "Or bubble tea! Maybe it's sushi and pho with bubble tea!"
Him: "Yeah! And po' boy sandwiches with marinated hot peppers! Or, hey, maybe it's a store."
Me: "Yeah! A shoe store, maybe. Or a wholesale jewelry store. Or a craft supply store! With bubble tea and low-calorie sandwiches! And a wine bar, and free babysitting! And roller-skate rental!"
So we watch the new development, driving slowly around its block each day. And then, finally, the sign goes up. It says:
FIRST NATIONAL TUMBLEWEED BANK.
Or:
WASHKAHATCHIE BANK
Or:
THE PEOPLE'S CREDIT UNION OF UNITED FARM TEACHERS
Because, I swear, nine times out of ten, it's a freaking bank. And my boyfriend and I look at each other, and we sigh. A tear runs down each of our cheeks. We wonder aloud who has such pressing need for so many effing bank branches.
And then we move on to the next development. 6:09 AM # (15) comments
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Five Quick Stories Involving Alice V.I.
When I was young - thirteen, fourteen - I used to sing. I walked down the streets of our neighborhood, amongst the stray dogs and blooming cannas, singing Blondie's "Heart of Glass." In the grocery store, I'd use the Muzak as my own personal karaoke machine. In the parking lot of St. Joseph Church, while waiting for Youth Group to start, I'd raise my hands, spin like Stephen Tyler, and sing Ozzie Osborne or Janis Joplin or whatever came to mind.
To encourage my love of singing, the youth group staff sent me to see Alice V. Or maybe they did it to punish me, I don't know. But either way, they sent me on a Thursday afternoon, across the church parking lot to a tiny orange house done up with a mural of the Virgin Mary. "Go," they said, pointing. "She's waiting for you there."
Skipping up the steps and through the door, humming a merry classic rock tune, I followed the scent of smoke. In the half light, made by dusty windows covered over with photographs and drums, maracas, bells, I saw her. Alice. At the piano bench, in an oaken haze of seriousness. Like a monument on a cliff —- no, like a dragon on a mountain. Unblinking, unsmiling, she waited for me.
I went to her, silently, the hum dead in my throat.
On the well worn piano, she played a scale of five notes, up and down. “Sing that.”
I coughed. My throat had run dry.
“Sing ah,” she said. “with the music.”
She raised her hand to play the scale again, and I knew she meant business, so I opened my mouth and squeaked, “Ah, ah, ah, ah, AH, ah, ah, ah-ah!”
Alice shook her head, then reached over and pressed my body with her left hand, right on my t-shirt and jeans. “Push with your stomach. Sing loud,” she said.
Shocked by her boldness, and totally afraid now, I pushed with my stomach and gave birth to the notes that she played on the keys. She played another scale, higher. And another, and another. And I sang through them all, trembling, but loud and on tune.
“Good,” she said. “Come back on Sunday morning.” I finally saw her eyes. They weren’t mean, like I expected. They were tired, and cynical, and bored, and amused, all at once. But not mean.
I walked out of the little house elated. Glad to be leaving, but also looking forward to coming back.
Sunday morning, back at the orange house across the church parking lot, I met with a motley crew of sopranos, altos, and tenors, all adults, all from completely different walks of life. They were the church choir, and what they had in common was that Alice talked to them all the same way she’d talked to me. For an hour we sang church songs, and she barked commands at us. Louder! Higher! Less vibrato! Take the harmony!
Everyone focused on the music, and I had no time to be shy. All too soon, the hour was up, and the other singers left to prepare for Mass. I found Alice smoking behind the sacristy, and I thanked her for the lesson.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Mass is about to start. Go into the church. Tell them to get you a microphone.”
“But,” I stammered, “this was my first practice ever, and I don’t even go to church. I can’t just go in there and sing!”
Alice blew smoke from her lungs slowly, then said her favorite thing—something I would hear her say many more times in the future. “Baptism by fire. It’s the best way to learn.”
II.
For 30 years now, Alice V. has run a non-profit arts organization near downtown. She gets local poor kids and puts paintbrushes, violins, or microphones in their hands. She writes to local Oil & Gas corporations and demands that they should give these kids money. If she can, she forces these kids to go to college. That’s what she chose to do with her life, and she does it all day long.
Fifteen or twenty years ago, I was one of those kids and Alice V. let me work at her organization after school, as an assistant assistant, so that I could have money to buy clothes. My main duties were organizing the sheet music room, and removing the yellowed leaves from Alice V.’s plants.
The main secretary was Yvonne. I was sixteen, and Yvonne was seventeen, but Yvonne was a whole lot older than me because she was six months pregnant, and I’d never even had a boyfriend yet.
One day, Alice V. needed us to drive her station wagon somewhere. Some kind of emergency—someone needed help. Alice had to drive someone else’s car to the next neighborhood over, and someone had to bring along the station wagon behind her.
“Not me,” said Yvonne. “I can’t drive.”
I quickly added, “I can’t drive, either.”
We were the only ones there. Alice looked at us with the cool glare that, by now, Yvonne was used to, but that still scared me a little bit. She turned it on Yvonne first.
“You’re going to have a baby, but you can’t drive a car?”
Yvonne giggled and shook her head again.
Alice turned to me. I was very afraid to drive the car, but more afraid of pissing her off. She handed me the keys and told me what I’d have to do.
“Come on,” she said. “Baptism by fire.”
The one-mile trip was uneventful, except for when I followed Alice under the Houston Avenue train bridge. Down in its darkness, Yvonne, my copilot, shrieked like a banshee. So I shrieked, too. It was cathartic and helped me focus. We kept it up, screeching like teakettles all the way to our destination, three blocks away. I stepped on the brake. Alice came over and told me to turn off the key. Yvonne and I fell back onto the bench seat, laughing with hysterical relief.
That’s how baptism by fire feels. Scary and thrilling, and then you’re grateful at the end.
III.
People said that Alice never laughed, but they were wrong. One time I said something silly, and accidentally made her laugh. She had a deep, smoky chuckle that came out like a cough, as if she, herself, was surprised to hear it. Then she’d shake her head, as if chuckling was frivolous, and it was time to get back to her mission of saving local poor kids.
After that, I was addicted. I followed her all around like a personal court jester, cracking jokes a mile a minute. Usually, she didn’t laugh. Usually, she just gave me food and told me what to do.
IV.
One evening, Alice called me and her other personal jester, Tania R. “I’m going to a party,” she said. “Do you want to go with me? There’ll be food.” Yes, we did want to go.
Tania’s parents owned a corner store in First Ward, the next neighborhood over from mine. I walked to her house and together, we picked through the pile of clothes that her mother sold to people in Mexico. We found things that were slinky or sparkly enough for a party. When Alice came to pick us up, we were waiting outside with the chickens and liquor crates, very excited.
The party was at a mall. Although the mall was closed for the night, its doors had been unlocked for this event. Black tie. Invitation only.
I looked at the other guests just long enough to see that they were rich, and we were underdressed. Even Alice was. She had on the same kind of skirt and blouse as always, with comfortable shoes.
So I avoided the guests and looked at the food. There were tables and tables of it. Giant shrimp on fancy skewers. Pyramids of the most expensive fruit. Mini quiches. Cheesecakes and brownies with delicate, intricate decorations.
I was in awe. What world was this, where they gave away giant shrimp for free? A world where I would never live, except for brief moments, through flukes like this.
The party had a mime. Tania and I engaged him—mimed with him and danced with him for hours. Meanwhile, Alice did what she’d come to do. One by one, she went around to every rich person there and hit them up for money. Guilt-tripped them into pledging funds. Pointed out me and Tania, happy in our used clothes, and made those people write checks.
At the end, Tania and I rode home in Alice’s station wagon, our faces flushed with pleasure and our purses filled with cheesecake and shrimp. Alice was relaxed now, and I realized that she hadn’t enjoyed the party at all. She’d done what she had to do, and fed a couple of poor kids in the process.
V.
I remember the day I left Alice’s non-profit for poor kids.
It was a Saturday morning, and I was riding in a borrowed pick-up truck, with Alice on one side of me, and my dad on the other. In the bed of the truck was everything I’d ever owned. We were driving to Austin in silence.
I’d been angry with her all week. We’d argued.
My argument had been, “I want to move in to my friend’s apartment and get a job at Dairy Queen.”
Her argument had been, “No.”
She had spent the last four years putting microphones, paintbrushes, food, and paychecks into my hands. She’d convinced a Rice professor to tutor me, to keep me from failing Calculus. She’d convinced a rich board member to pay my fee to take the SATs. She’d convinced everyone she knew to pull strings with everyone they knew, to let me apply to colleges way past the deadline. And I’d been accepted by UT. So she’d called a Representative at the State Capitol and forced him to give me a clerk job. And she’d had him badger his staff to find me a place, for free. And she’d dredged up some grant funding and called it a scholarship, and given it to me keep me afloat until my real, full scholarship came through from the University.
And so, there we were, in the borrowed pick-up truck, on the way to Austin. Alice sitting next to me, driving, silent. And I was so, so angry with her.
The worst part was that I knew, even before we left the city limits, that my anger was wrong. This was another of those situations where, in the future, I’d be laughing about how Alice was stubborn, and annoying, but right. Always right.
By the time we reached La Grange, the palms of my hands soaked the bench seat, and I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t anger I was feeling. It was fear.
It was too late to tell her, too late to apologize. I looked at her, and Alice just sat there silent, driving.
There was only one thing left to say, then, and I’d have to say it to myself, in my mind. “Baptism by fire.”
I said it all the way to Austin. And Alice was right; it was the best way to learn.
That was a true story.
On September 14th, Alice's non-profit for poor kids will celebrate its 30th anniversary. I'm going to the party, and they want me to speak in front of the mayor and everybody about the necessity of community arts organizations and their continued funding.
Although I've read this story for important people before, Alice won't let me read it for the mayor. She says, "MECA's not really just about me, Gwen. A lot of people work really hard to make this place [etc., excessive modesty, etc.]"
If you'd like to help Alice with her mission, click here. 2:28 AM # (6) comments
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I feel simultaneously old, proud, and broke.My son wants an electric guitar for his 15th birthday.
Maybe I'll dig up my old Led Zeppelin chord charts for him, while I'm at it. Ah, youth. Ah, memories. Ah, wasted lessons! Anybody got a cheap guitar for sale, let me know.
Houston, I love you, but you're stupid.
How hard is it to drive without touching your car on the other cars around you? It's too hard for people who take my freeway home, apparently. Especially the people entering/exiting on a certain exit. Every time the DJ says, "And there's a wreck on [Gwen's freeway]," I say, "Was it on [the exit where 90% of the wrecks occur]?" and the DJ says, "Yes, Gwen. Yes, it was."
So then, today, it was raining. It's raining a little because Tropical Depression Ernie (or whatever they named it) is edging its way into town. It might be followed by Hurrican Dean, and it might not. But that's beside the point. The point is, it started to rain, and therefore several people in Houston automatically lost the few driving skills they had. There was a multi-car pile-up on my freeway this morning. There always is, every effing time it rains. Not when it storms, and not when it hurricanes... all it has to do is rain, and people are wrecking all over the place.
People. Put down your cell phones. Put down your eyelash curlers. Stop texting on your Blackberries. For the love of God, stop working your Sudoku puzzles. (I swear to God on the Bible, I saw a woman doing that on the freeway the other day. While driving! Granted, traffic was stop and go. But still!)
If you know in your heart that you aren't a very good driver, or that you're easily distracted, or that you're really bad at judging distances and brake times... Please, please, please put down all your other stuff and keep your eyes on the road. Damn it. Seriously, people. Get it together. What would you do if you had to live in a city where it snowed? You'd be dead by now, wouldn't you?
Also: If you know your car's a piece of crap and it's likely to stall on the freeway, take the effing feeder road, instead. Or, at the very least, ride in the freeway's rightmost lane, so you can get to the shoulder if anything happens. Leave the middle and left lanes for people who can afford tune-ups and gasoline, okay?
I know no one who needs to is reading this. I know there'll be some jacked-up, time-consuming accident on the way home this very afternoon, in fact. Screw it. I'm doing happy hour after work. I'm not driving home til dark.
Food Patterns and Vanity
Do you ever get into a certain food flow? Like, a craving that lasts a long time?
Right now I'm really into eating eggs and toast for breakfast. Every day. I think I've had eggs and toast for about 18 days straight now. My body, it needs the protein. It wants the bread and butter for comfort, too. I'm thinking about buying a toaster, actually, so I don't have to outsource the toast production all the time. But I know the minute I get one, I'll stop wanting eggs and toast. I'll go back to Special K Protein, or Generic Version of Special K With Strawberries, instead.
My other food flow, lately, is plums. Plums are pretty awesome, don't you think? They don't get mushy as fast as peaches, and they don't get mealy like nectarines. And their skins hold everything in, and they're a compact, almost cute size, and they only have, like, 40 calories each. And you can eat almost the whole thing, apart from the pit and the stem. They're like cherries, but bigger and cheaper, and less susceptible to mold. So I'm really into plums right now. (You're like, "Uh, thanks for that info," right?)
Today, in other calorie-related news, I finally lost enough weight to wear this shirt that I've been holding onto, without its buttons popping off my chest and putting out somebody's eye.
Which isn't too crow-worthy, in the grand scheme of things, because that just means I've fought back down to the same weight I was at a year ago. And I still have quite a ways to go to meet my goal, which is "the weight I was at 2 years ago."
And the seasons, they go 'round and 'round, and the yo-yo diet goes up and down. I'm singin' 'bout a carousel of fat...
(Sorry, Joni Mitchell. Sorry!)
I mean, none of this really matters, in the grand scheme of things. But, at the same time, I'm happy to be wearing this shirt again. 11:57 AM # (10) comments
Monday, March 19, 2007
How I Spent Spring BreakMy kids went to their dad's for the week. So what did I do?
My friends and I went out dancing and met someone mythical. We were disappointed by the new, new, new Rich's and its DJ, but that didn't keep us from staying until 3:30 AM. (Shout out to Jennifer! JENNIFER.)
My friend Rose took me to dinner at Mia Bella. We drank wine and had everything with extra olive oil. She turned me on to Jacob's Creek merlot. I used to like Red Diamond, but now that I've had Jacob's, I can never drink Red Diamond again. That happens to me with every new glass I drink, just about. Rose said Scorpios (her) and Capricorns (me) always overindulge together. Besides wine, she always turns me on to the best books I've ever read. Like this short story anthology, and this eerily accurate astrology tome.
I spent a good hour talking, via phone, with my new editor, about all the things that authors and editors should discuss. My old editor left her job to pursue bigger, brighter things. She told me, at the time, that she was inspired to do so by my upcoming novel. Isn't that funny? I hope it's funny and not a bad thing... I think it's good, even though I miss her. I hope she's doing very well.
My boyfriend and I did art. I painted, he sculpted and collaged. And it felt so right. We bought supplies to do more stuff in the future. We organized the "crafting room" so that we can all do art (me, him, the kids) whenever we feel like it. I think that's an important thing for families to do - at least as important as playing video games and taking out the trash.
We went to Central Market and bought sexy foods. Like cilantro pecan pesto and olive bread and snap beans and jumbo Gulf shrimp. Then we cooked the sexy foods up and swallowed them with two bottles of Red Diamond. Since we had to get rid of it, you know. Since I'm not drinking it anymore.
We planted celosias in my front yard, and fertilized the lawn, and got to know my neighbors better. That was nice. At first everyone in neighborhood seemed quiet and keep-to-themselves-y. But they're not. They're just busy, like me. I've learned that the time to connect with my neighbors is Saturday morning, in the yard. If I go out into my yard, someone's bound to come by, beer in hand, maybe, and start up a conversation. I like it. It's fun. It's what a community should be. It's why I pay on my mortgage. I like being middle class. At first I thought it'd be hard, making the switch. But now I see that it doesn't matter how you get there, because everyone in your neighborhood works just as hard as you do, and for the same reasons. That's really what it comes down to, this middle classiness. That, and liquor. Seriously - there are more liquor stores here in my neighborhood than in the ghetto-est ghettos I know.
I missed my kids a little, then a lot, then not at all, then just the right amount for them to come home again. I'm glad they're back. Tomorrow we'll paint together. This weekend we're going to the Bayou City Arts Festival. And I suppose we'll eat crawfish, because I promised.
It was a good week, and next week will be better. And better, and better, and the next one always better, until we're done. God willing. Amen. 8:37 PM # (8) comments
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Now that I've scared everyone away...It's time to talk about good things.
1. We finally saw Little Miss Sunshine and, oh my god, it was one of the funniest, awesomest movies I've ever seen in my life. I bet all of you saw it already, but if you haven't, then you totally should.
2. This past weekend, my bf and I saw Notes on a Scandal at the local indie/artsy/whatever-y theater. First, I should tell y'all that I liked it very much. But second, I have to make a confession, and it's that my boyfriend and I are weird and have bad manners. I mean, apparently. We went to the artsy theater, like I said, and we enjoyed the movie, like I said, and so we laughed aloud at certain parts. And we gasped aloud at certain parts. And we were the only ones doing so, and, after a while, it seemed to be getting on the other six audience members' nerves. (Especially when my boyfriend leaned over to me and loudly whispered, "Oh my god, that is so fucked up!") But, oh well. I'm sorry we were into the movie and y'all weren't, you guys.
Again, you should go see that movie. Especially if you've ever been in one of those "friendships" where your "friend" is psycho and secretly hates you, even while being clingy and pretending to love you (and especially if they mix it up by touching you inappropriately, too). If you've ever been in one of those, Notes on a Scandal will be like an awesome horror movie custom-made just for you.
3. I can't believe I'd never in my life seen Houston's Byzantine Fresco Chapel until this past Saturday. We went, and it was very beautiful. Not huge, not action-movie exciting, but just very peaceful and serene and gorgeously made. Rather like the Menil Collection, itself. If you haven't gone yet, you should totally, totally go. The pics on that site don't do it justice. Houston is seriously lucky to have had the de Menil family living here, making awesome stuff for us to look at on weekends for free.
Labels: Houston, pop culture
4:15 PM # (8) commentsThursday, November 30, 2006
Acheiving Inner (Intestinal) HarmonyWhy does Coke go so well with greasy food? Is it because that's the liquid people use to remove car battery corrosion?
There's nothing more gastrointestinally awesome, to me, than pizza followed by a can of diet cola. (Or, as some of you so charmingly call it, brown pop.)
I thought, this morning, that I could eat cheesy eggs and two smoked sausages for breakfast. Instead, I ate the cheese off my eggs and then one sausage, and then gave my other sausage to a coworker.
The sausage was like a fiery dragon within me. Diet Coke, I realized, would be my knight in shining armor.
This sounds like one of those clever embedded blog ads, I know. But it isn't. You know it isn't, because I didn't link to Coke's web site, and because I called it battery corrosion cleaner.
I will never put secret ads on this blog, you guys. At the same time, however, I see no reason to hide my reoccurring Diet Coke addiction. I used to sneer at people who ordered it in restaurants. But now, I understand. Its chemical taste and separate chemical aftertaste get to you, after a while. You start to appreciate it like fine red wine.
Houston's Big News Today
"The big story this morning... The weather!" says the morning radio newsperson. Yes, the weather. Because it's been 76 or 82 degrees all month, and today we're getting a "blue Norther" and they promise the temperature will drop to 40 by afternoon rush hour.
Oh my god! Forty degrees! Here is the conversation taking place all around me.
"Did you bring your coat today?"
"Yes!"
"I didn't."
"What? Oh my god! It's gonna be 40 degrees! It's already 37 in San Antonio!"
"I know. [Sighs.] But I'm leaving at lunch today for a doctor's appointment, then going home. I think I can make it. If not, I can always stop at Target and buy a coat, I guess. If I get there in time..."
"Godspeed to you, then. Godspeed!"
Because that's how dramatic we like to get about cold weather around here. Especially now that it's been so (slightly) unseasonably warm for so long.
Gift Tree!
They finally put up the gift tree in our lobby, a week or two after the xmas decorations. I was kind of scared they weren't going to do it this year, after all, but they came through. I saw it yesterday on my way home, then - don't think I'm smurfy, but - woke up this morning excited to come back to work. I showed up early so I could have time to read every single effing tag.
You know how some people get off on reading Post Secret or Craiglist's Missed Connections? Well, that's how I get off on reading the gift tree wish tags.
I took a few pictures of them, but I'm not sure it's right to post them on my Flickr, since they used the kids' full names. If I have time to blot out their last names, I'll post them later tonight.
This year I noticed they shifted from elementary-age kids to Kinder and Pre-K, ages 6 and below. They put the kids' names, ages, teachers' names, and 3 gift choices each. For the second year in a row, it was obvious that they asked the kids to keep the costs low. There were no requests for I-Pods or bikes. Also, this year it seemed like someone got after the kids to ask for more "educational" things. Almost everyone asked for books and/or magnets and/or science lab stuff. I mean, maybe books are just the hot item this year, all of a sudden, but I doubt it. I'm not dumb.
Most of the kids' tags were filled out by adults, obviously. Some, as usual, were in Spanish. One was in Spanglish - someone wanted "una muneca de beybey con mamila." Mamila was the one word I didn't know. Is that a bottle or a pacifier?
Some of them had "gift certificate" (or variations on that spelling) for the first choice. Some only had two choices filled. The most popular requests this year were dolls (evenly divided between Barbies and Bratz), Legos, and lucha libre items. One girl wanted a "Hello Kitty mouse for computer." You go, little girl.
My favorite request was from a six-year-old boy who apparently wrote the tag himself. This is what he wanted:
1. SWORD
2. POWER RANJR (Power Ranger.)
3. LEGOS
I like a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to ask for it in all caps. And I like that the teacher had to edit his tag, just in case the adults working in my building couldn't make the intuitive leap from Ranjr to Ranger. (Good thinking, lady.)
Mostly, though, I just like little kids and the crazy stuff they come up with. Earlier this month they had coloring contest entries posted in the lobby. Now we have the gift tree. I swear, if they could come up with a new child-created display every other week (like essays or project boards), then I would look forward to coming to work every single day. 9:11 AM # (4) comments
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Disappointment, thy name is Benassi.Very quickly, let me tell you. Semi-recently, we went to see Benny Benassi at a club. I was the one who wanted to go most. You don't know who he is? Okay - you know that song with the Speak & Spell voiced chick going, "Push me, and then just touch me, 'til I can get my... satisfaction... satisfaction..."?
No? Okay, well, forget it, then. Just know that he's some techno guy who's living off the success of his one album from a zillion years ago. And I wasn't the only one who thought that was enough to pay $15 pre-show to see him. The very large club was jam-packed with fans.
First up was DJ Red, though. I never heard of him til that night, but he was good. Everyone was dancing and happy to be alive while DJ Red was spinning on the stage. It was me and my boyfriend and Mike and Richard there, and one of Mike's friends named Jim. Hardcore music enthusiasts, all. None of our other club-friends had been hardcore enough to brave that crowd.
Then one of Mike's other friends showed up - a boy they called Goofy Rick, or else Gimpy Rick. (Don't ask why; I never do.) I only see Goofy Rick once in a while, but I remember that he's always polite to me. And he's always, always goofy.
Round about midnight, Mr. Benny Benassi deigned to appear. Boy, his fans were glad. I was glad - hey, I didn't download his album illegally, or copy it from my friends. I bought that thing full price, and I loved it. But some of his fans there were more devoted than that. Some of them were wearing suits and argyle vests, as Mr. Benassi has been known to do.
Not Mr. Benassi himself, though. No. Hell no.
Muthafucka gets up on stage looking like he just rolled out the hotel bed. Hair all uncombed. Jeans and wrinkled t-shirt. Benny Benassi walked up looking like my Uncle Jose when he gets home from his job mowing lawns.
Which would have been one thing, if he'd spun anything good. But he didn't, so it was something else altogether. It was a waste of $15. ($25 at the door.) "Bring back DJ Red," a bunch of us were thinking. Matters weren't made better when local DJ Sean Carnahan took the stage. Apparently, Sean had helped arrange Mr. Benassi's visit. But, seriously, a lot of us had to wonder, who the hell wants to look at Sean Carnahan sitting up on the speaker next to Benny Benassi, smiling like a possum? Get off the stage, Sean.
The only thing to do, after that, was laugh at Goofy Rick. I swear, that guy was killing us. Everything he did involved humping or getting humped by everyone in the club. He humped Jim's friend Jody. Then he feverishly humped and necked with our friend Mike. He danced next to Richard and stroked his long, invisible member, until Richard told him to quit.
The best/worst thing, though, was when he walked up to the three bored/annoyed/frumpy girls who were standing on the rail, next to me. These three girls obviously weren't there because they liked techno music. They'd walked in with a single gay guy, but he'd removed his shirt and thrown himself into the sweaty throng a long time ago.
Goofy Rick got up behind the saddest, most annoyed girl and pretended to freak-dance against her. But without touching her, of course. And without her seeing him at all. But her friends saw.
Goofy Rick went away. The Sad Girl's friends lost no time, then, telling Sad Girl what he'd done. With pointing, pantomime, and eye-rolls, they explained it all. Maybe it was the beers I'd had, but it seemed to me that they then pantomimed a plan. They would dance, enticing Goofy Rick to fake-hump them in turn. Then, they'd turn around and tell him off. Maybe even kick him in the balls.
Sad Girl watched from the corner of her eye while her two friends danced. Her two friends watched Goofy Rick from the corners of their eyes while their dance increased in lasciviousness. But Goofy Rick didn't seem to notice. He was involved in a conversation with Richard by then - maybe a serious conversation about the maintenance of his incredible invisible manhood.
Sad Girl's two friends danced and danced, thrusting their hips back in Goofy Rick's direction. They threw their arms wantonly over their heads. Eventually, they no longer even tried to hide the fact that they wanted his attention. They stared at him over their shoulders, smiling and licking their lips.
But he was over it by then. He had other things to do. Before he left, he sneaked up behind my boyfriend and kissed his neck. Then, he fake-humped me once or twice from behind. And then, dear reader, he was gone. The end.
Sad Girl and Friends looked very disappointed. They were sad that they hadn't gotten the chance to give that horrible man a piece of their minds, I guess.
Maybe it was just the Blue Monkey shot I'd had that was making me think this, but suddenly, that whole episode was the funniest, most poignant thing I'd ever seen in my life. Clear as a memory, I could see Sad Girl riding home in her friends' car, dwelling on the fact that she had been the one Goofy Rick had chosen.
I couldn't stop giggling about it. But Benny Benassi never got any better, so way before Sad Girl and two AM, we went home.
Labels: Houston, pop culture, stories
9:49 PM # (4) commentsThursday, July 13, 2006
(This will only make sense to people who listen to Houston FM radio.)Oh, my gosh. I can't believe 104 fired Atom and Maria and is replacing them with Roula and Ryan. Jeez.
On the one hand, it doesn't bother me too much because I won't miss Atom at all. I won't miss him screaming into his microphone, and I won't miss his constant cycle of "say I'm not gay, joke that maybe I am gay, force Johnny Bravo to dress like a woman for my pleasure, apologize to my wife."
On the other hand, I didn't miss Roula. I didn't miss her complete ignorance of news and pop culture, I didn't miss her blind loyalty to President Bush, and I don't miss her whiny voice.
But I will miss Maria Todd a lot. She's been my favorite radio DJ in Houston for a long, long time.
They should have combined Maria with Ryan. And then told Ryan not to discuss homosexuality. (What is with Houston's male DJs that they're constantly discussing their own sexuality and their suspicions of other men's?)
I hope Maria gets a better job soon. Does anyone even listen to Sam Malone on 96.5? Only straight-up brown shirts and people who really care about how often he eats chicken parmesan with his wife, right?
Labels: Houston, pop culture
7:05 AM # (6) commentsMonday, June 12, 2006
Now that I've calmed down about it, several months after the fact...... I can tell y'all why I'm never eating at 59 Diner, on Shepherd and 59, again.
I had just recovered from my gall bladder removal surgery and was looking forward to eating a chili dog without subsequent pain. In fact, it was all I could think about. Chili dog. Chili dog. Chili dog.
Who had the best chili dogs in town? 59 Diner, I decided. The rest of their food wasn't the greatest, and the service was uneven lately, but you could always count on them for a good chili dog.
My boyfriend drove me and the kids to 59 Diner. Very slowly, I made my way to our table. My abdomen was still a little sore from the surgery, making it slightly difficult to walk, but I didn't mind. The pain would be worth the pleasure. The pleasure of the chili dog, I mean.
Service was slower than ever. Before our waitress made it over to take our order, we had plenty of time to watch an older waitress visit with her family. Apparently, the woman at the next table over was Older Waitress's daughter. The man there was Older Waitress's son-in-law, or else her daughter's-baby-daddy. The kid was the grandkid, spoiled and loud. Older Waitress visited with them for moments at a time, continually interrupting herself to bring to the table yet another cherry lemonade, strawberry milkshake, rootbeer float, etc.
Before our waitress even came to take our order, Older Waitress ran back to the kitchen and out again in order to bring her family a triumphant platter of chili cheeseburgers and chili fries. I think there may have also been a bowl of chili. Or a chili milkshake or something.
"Man, they must really like chili," I remember remarking to my boyfriend.
Finally, finally, finally, our waitress dragged her maudlin little self to our table.
"Chili dog with chili cheese fries!" I cried, clapping my hands like a little girl with a new doll who has recently undergone gall bladder removal surgery. My boyfriend and kids ordered this, that, and the other. The melancholy waitress disappeared.
Then she returned, like a sad-ass little genie.
"We're out of chili," she said.
"What?" I didn't know what she meant. How could they be out of chili? Were we or were we not at a diner?
"They ran out," she said.
"Well, can they make some more?" I asked. "Can they just open another can?"
"Uh... I can check." She went to do so. She returned. "Nope. They don't have any more." No apology. No rain check. Just that.
At that point I looked over at Older Waitress and her family. The baby sucked on a bottle. Their chili fries were picked at, the chili cheeseburger uneaten. They'd gorged themselves on free milkshakes, no doubt, and were unable to swallow the rest.
I rose from the bench seat, a crossbow in my hands.
"No, baby, no," said my boyfriend.
I had to order a cheeseburger. It tasted okay, but probably only because I was starving by then. Between bites, I told my boyfriend everything I intended to do. Write a letter. Call the district manager. Get the Older Waitress fired. Submit her grandchild's name to the Maury Povich Show for DNA testing.
At the end, I made the only promise that came true.
"We're never eating here again."
We haven't. Good riddance. Don't mess with me when I'm hungry. Don't interfere with my post-surgery cravings.
Sadly, however, I haven't yet found a replacement place to eat chili dogs. People in Houston, share suggestions, please. 10:40 AM # (12) comments
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Two Fat PiggiesI.
Houston pigeons are getting fatter and fatter. I used to say that they crapped on my boyfriend's car and not on mine because they know that I'm an animal lover and he's the opposite of an animal lover. But then, this morning, outside Einstein Brothers Bagels, my son Josh was dismayed to see pigeon poop splash onto our Altima's windshield. We looked up. Curled in the C of a nail salon's sign was a fat, fat pigeon, beaking his mites and dripping poop on my car.
"You fat, fat pigeon!" I cried.
I don't like to talk to pigeons like that, normally, but this one was just pathetic. I just know his bowels were running from the remnants of a bucket of KFC that he probably cannibalistically scarfed down. And bleached white flour. And refined sugar. And high fructose corn syrup. And maltitose, and that stuff in the fat-free potato chips that causes diarrhea.
Fat pigeons! Save yourselves! Fly away to France!
II.
We went to my latest fave restaurant for lunch. They have a bowl of fruit by the door and encourage you to take a piece as you leave.
I took a pear, meaning to save it for a 3 PM snack.
I ate it as soon as I got back to my desk.
Labels: Houston
1:31 PM # (7) commentsFriday, May 12, 2006
Reasons I'm a Little Bit Sad Today1. I was seriously craving the Fantasy sandwich from Baba Yega today, but none of my friends wanted to go out to lunch, and I don't have the emotional fortitude to go by myself. So, no sandwich for me.
2. I have to save up as much money as humanly possible for the house I hope to buy. That means: no shopping for new clothes or other unnecessary crap that I would normally buy. So, my normal Lunch Plan B of going to TJ Maxx and buying a bunch of discounted imperfect honey-scented shower gel? No longer viable.
3. Not that I'm a hardcore clotheshorse or anything (anymore), but it is nice to update one's wardrobe for spring. And, for the reason mentioned in Number 2 above, I will not be doing that. So - I am dowdy.
4. I'm not sad about my plan to get a house, but I am a little saddened by the prosect of maybe paying a really high escrow and thereby having to refrain from shopping for quite a while longer. Having to get used to not buying fun things. Having, like some of my coworkers with big mortgaes, to eat Cup O'Soup for lunch on a daily basis, maybe. It'll all be worth it if I get a nice house (and eventually make more money), but still. The prospect is a tiny bit grim.
5. I haven't written anything new and good yet. I can't think of anything new and good enough. It makes me feel constipated. It makes me feel lazy.
6. I am, maybe, sort of, a tiny bit sad about having to leave Houston's Inner Loop. I know - no one cares. Only other people born and rasied in the Inner L