Gwen's blog

The Latest

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.

Monday, November 19, 2007
Gourds!

We went to an HEB in the middle of nowhere the other day. (HEB is a big ol' grocery chain in Texas.) Out in front of the store, they had crates of bagged gourds and mini pumpkins for $1.50 per bag, surrounded by desperate fruit flies. So I bought three bags of gourds. Even though it's almost too late for harvest decorations, I bought them, figuring I could paint them silver and gold and use them for Martha Stewart-y xmas decorations.

Last night I cut open the bags and sorted through all the mixed gourds, picking out the best ones to display on the mantel. And, oh my god, I love mini gourds so much. I wanted to hug and kiss each one. They're so cute and harvesty. And now I don't want to paint them, because they're so beautiful just the way they are. I want to keep them forever. I want them to be my pets.

blipping over Thanksgiving

So the kids are going to their dad's for Thanksgiving, and we're not even cooking turkey--we're going to a Chinese restaurant. So, in a way, I feel like Thanksgiving doesn't exist and therefore I'm already planning for Christmas.

And it kind of makes me sad, to skip a holiday like that. But then again, I'm so glad to have the kids for Christmas this year, I'll gladly skip Thanksgiving in exchange for that.

vanity update

I got my hair cut, but didn't have it all cut off, like I threatened. They layered the hell out of it, but left the back long. While Tina hacked away, I noted the clear line of demarcation between my old color and my roots. So I went home later and dyed my hair Navajo Bronze, aka "light caramel brown," and it came out dark auburn instead, and it looks nice and I like it.

And we got a new scale, and I've lost 35 pounds total in the past 6 months. And my goal is to lose 20 more, and I'm giving myself 6 more months to do that. So... yeah. Wish me luck.

My boyfriend can cook like a mofo.

The other day we were ambling around the grocery store, trying to decide what to make for dinner. My boyfriend says, "How about chicken wings?" And I said, "You mean like buffalo wings? Eh."

And he made us baked chicken wings, with salt and pepper and garlic, and DAMN they were good. My boyfriend is the master of cooking stuff with just salt, pepper, garlic, and making whatever it is taste like a $29 entree.

My night elf, she is sad.

My World of Warcraft character, Xora, has been stuck on Level 32 for the past nine months. I'm on this quest where I have to go into a haunted house and kill a bunch of zombies. Whenever I log on, no one else is playing that quest so no one can help me out. So I'll go into the haunted house and kill a few zombies, until the biggest zombie kills me, and then I'll spend a while bringing my character back to life, and then I get tired and log off.

I told my kids that, unless they wanted to get grounded, at least one of them was going to have to get online with me and help my character level up.

"I can just play your character for you until you're like, Level 35," said my youngest, who is 10.

"I don't want someone else to play it for me!" I whined. "I want to level up by myself!"

"Fine," said my oldest. "I'll help you the weekend after next, if I have time."

It's that time of year, when the world needs new clothes.

My boyfriend Tad wanted to look at trenchcoats, even though he already owns at least two. But we finally had a cold front, and the temperature set off that trenchcoat impulse within him.

So we went to the Galleria, which is where a few rich people go to shop, and where zillions of poor people go to watch them. We went into Neiman's and pretended we could afford it. We went to Saks 5th and pretended we were classy enough to lift our noses at the mannequins. We went to the new Barney's and sniffed that it was nothing like the one in New York. We peered into the window of Fendi and disagreed over the spotlighted purse. (I was for, Tad was against.) We went to Club Monaco and enjoyed the music. We went to Nordstrom and left in a huff over the fact that there were no more BCBG sweater dresses in size XL. (Which was good, since I couldn't afford one, anyway.)

Most importantly, we noted that fingerless knit gloves (solid or striped) were all the rage again, just like back in the eighties. We thought my 10-year-old son might like a pair. But the cheapest pair we found was $14 at Urban Outfitters, and that was too much.

We left the Galleria. The next day, we went to Target, where we purchased a set of two pairs of knit gloves--one black and one black and white stripes--for $1.49. We took them home and cut off the fingers with pinking shears. When my youngest son got home from Austin that night, we told him our Galleria adventures, then presented him with the knock-off gloves. He takes after us... I couldn't tell if he was more enchanted with the trendiness of them, or with the fact that we'd recreated the trend for so cheap.

Labels: , , , , ,

 

6:37 AM #
(6) comments

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Extreme Annoyance

You aren't going to know what I mean if you don't know Houston streets, but I'm going to say this, anyway. There sure are a lot of stupid, rude people driving down Allen Parkway in the mornings lately. And in the River Oaks area, in general.

Stupid woman in the Lexus SUV with the bluebonnet license plate who lives in (or visits someone in) Allen Parkway condos: You almost killed me the other day, and you didn't even notice.

Rude people coming west down Memorial, then going left on Shepherd: Quit running the red light, assholes. Quit running the red, then filling up the intersection on the red, then having the nerve to honk at me when I'm trying to come east down Memorial and go right on Shepherd while I have the green freaking arrow. Who do you people think you are? Do you think that, because you're going into River Oaks, that makes you special? You're wrong.

People going south on Shepherd, turning left on Allen Parkway: That's a two-lane left turn. See the arrows on the signs? Stay in your lane, or don't throw the finger at people who honk at you to keep you from wrecking.

Stupid people driving Hummers or Tahoes while texting on your phones: Stay in your lanes, or else don't act all hurt when I honk at you for coming out of your lane and drifting toward my car.

There -- I feel better having typed all that. I know it won't keep me any safer, though. Unfortunately. Constant vigilance...

What Not to Pay a Lot For

Today I'm wearing a $3 sweater. It's fuchsia, 100% mercerized cotton, from Jones New York. Also, I'm wearing $8 pants -- black, lined, perfect fit -- the label of which was removed before I found them at the thrift store.

My shoes are heeled loafers from the Kohl's Junior section. I bought them on clearance, along with two other pairs, before I realized that Kohl's had a junior shoe section. It's where they put all the shoes with chunky heels, looks like. So, like... training heels? For teens who don't yet know how to walk in heels, but still want to? I think I'm the only one buying them, though.

Normally I don't wear heels with pants, because I don't care enough, but today I have to because my favorite black loafers -- flats -- have finally given out. They're broken in a way that I can no longer fix them. *Sighz!!1!!*

This is boring, isn't it? Let me sex it up for y'all, then.

You don't own me. Nor do you own my wardrobe.

I have this friend named Julio, and as his name implies, he is a latino male, and therefore he embodies certain stereotypes on a regular basis. (I'm sorry, latino men reading this, but y'all do. Y'all just do.)

Me: ... and I had to wear heels today, because those shoes I wear every day? Now have a big old hole in them.
Julio: [with knowing look] That's not why you're wearing heels.
Me: It's not?
Julio: Come on. Don't play dumb. What does your boyfriend say about it?
Me: Dude. Stop being latino.

You see what he's saying? No? Okay, here's another.

Julio: I like your ring.
Me: Thanks.
Julio: So, is your boyfriend going to pop the question?
Me: What?
Julio: Come on. Don't play dumb. We both know why you're wearing that ring on that finger. You're trying to tell him something. So, I guess all that stuff you said about not wanting to get married... You've changed your mind now, huh?
Me: I'm wearing my ring on this finger because I finally lost enough weight to wear it again, but I haven't lost enough weight to move it to my middle finger yet.
Julio: Oh.
Me: If I want to get married to my boyfriend, I'll just tell him that. With my words.
Julio: Okay, sorry. You don't have to get all mad.

You see what I'm saying now, about latinos? No?

Me: So I have to go meet with the underwriter after lunch.
Julio: Oh, I see. So that's why you're wearing a skirt today.
Me: What the hell? Julio, I'm wearing a skirt because all my pants were in the wash this morning.
Julio: Whatever. Look, you don't have to lie. I know how women are. If you have a crush on this underwriter guy, it's fine with me. But does your boyfriend know? He's gonna figure it out, when he sees that you're wearing a skirt.
Me: No, he isn't, because my boyfriend isn't a possessive, self-centered latino. He knows that I dress for myself and not for every man on earth! Dammit!
Julio: That's what you think. I have to hand it to your boyfriend -- he plays it pretty cool, and obviously that works for him. But all men are the same, and we all know how women are. He knows why you're wearing that skirt. You'd better watch yourself.
Me: Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you and every other latino man I know??!??1!1!

I'm not obsessed with my weight. I'm obsessed with the means of measuring it.

My scale finally broke all the way. For the past month or so, it's been telling me that I weigh 354.5 pounds. (That's not really the number, but I don't feel comfortable saying the real number online. So I'm telling y'all analogously, instead.)

One day last week, it told me that I weighed 351.5, which was my goal weight at the time, so I chose to believe my scale on that day. Then it went back to 354.5, and I chose not to believe it.

Now I should weigh 349.5, if I'm counting my calories right. (Which I am, because -- hello -- look how obsessive I am about the numbers, here.) But the scale won't tell me that I've lost two pounds this week. Instead, it obsessively sticks to 354.5.

This morning, it said 99999, then it said 298.5, then it said 351.5.

I guess it's time to get a new scale. I was all freaked out about that, starting from a new baseline, within a new system. Because, see, I don't care if the scale tells me my true weight -- I only care if it accurately gauges weight loss. But if I buy a new scale, the baseline will presumably change, and what will I do with that integer of difference?

Julio said, "That what standards are for." I said, "I have standards. What are you trying to say?" But he said he meant mathematical standards, and that I should put a filled 5-gallon jug of water on each scale, to gauge their difference, and then make my calculations from that. (He's good at math. He has a degree in it or something.)

I was happy. "What a good idea!" I said. "But I'll use a ten-pound dumbbell, instead."

So now all I have to do is buy a new scale.

"So is that why you're always in a bad mood lately? Because you're starving yourself in order to change the numbers on your broken scale?"

"No. Shut the hell up."

"What does your boyfriend say? Does he say you're always in a bad mood lately? Does he think it's worth the weight loss, to hear your bitching all the time?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP."

Turkey Day, or Pork Day, or Mussells in Black Bean Sauce Day

I'm not cooking for Thanksgiving, after all. What with all the stress of my ex-husband suing me for custody of our kids, I am simply unable. Plus, I don't have the kids for Thanksgiving this year, anyway, so I'd prefer to spend the four-day weekend loafing, not washing dishes.

We're going to a Chinese restaurant -- me, my boyfriend, and all my family members who've been displaced by my decision not to cook. My boyfriend wants to buy me lobster. I said I'd rather just eat pork. Or mussels. Or shrimp. Or tofu.

And I'm thankful. I give thanks for my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and especially my kids.

It looks, by the way, like this whole custody suit thing might work out better than I'd feared. Fingers crossed...

Whining Done

That's it. No more whining. Really, I'm relatively content now -- the bad stuff has been handled and potential good stuff looms on the horizon (always). So, I'm good. I'm thankful. I'm hopeful.

What are y'all doing for Thanksgiving, peeps? What kind of pies are you going to make? Will you send me a piece? A 100-calorie slice, please?

Labels: , , , ,

 

6:08 AM #
(11) comments