I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
News!You guys, I landed a new day job. Just gave two week's notice. This new job is more applicable to my skill set, too. Long-time readers will remember that, for the last five years, I've been working in the lucrative Puppy Wedding Arrangement industry. (Not to be confused with the Dog Wedding Planner industry, which is slightly less lucrative.)
Now I get to use my writing skills, and be a Dog Catering Menu Writer. As everyone in Houston knows, dog catering encompasses way more opportunity than dog weddings. I'm going to have to get a different kind of license. But it'll be worth it.
In other words, I'm not planning on talking about this job in great detail, either.
Cat Porn News
Yesterday I came home from work dead tired and decided to doze a little bit on my bed. No sooner had I closed my eyes, then Toby and Starbuck began trying to get it on. Silently, this time, but still.
"You guys. No," I said weakly. They jumped off the mattress and slunk away.
I don't know why they have to do it while I'm in the room. They have all day alone, practically. Maybe they're exhibitionists. Maybe they aspire to be porn stars. Cat porn stars.
Starbuck's porn name is Kitty Delite. Toby's is Johnny Frisco. That's what they told me. Now I'm supposed to find them an agent. That's what they said.
Not much else to say at the moment.
It seems like, the more I accomplish in real life, the less I have to tell y'all on this blog. :)
More later, then. Y'all take it easy. 8:46 PM # (9) comments
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Now I have to go back and delete everything cute I've ever said about my cats. And maybe get them baptized.Starbuck (girl cat) customarily sleeps at the foot of my bed. There's a little patch of cat hair there to prove it. But I don't mind because she's really good about keeping out of the way of my feet, and she stays quiet.
Toby (new boy cat) did mind, though. Every night, almost, he's been coming into the bedroom and whining at Starbuck. He wanted her to go with him into the living room with him. He wanted to play. Sometimes, he'd even jump up on the bed and get all up in her Kool-Aid, meowing in her face. Then they'd fight. Then I'd kick them out of the room.
That was a semi-regular occurrence, until last night.
Last night, I woke up to the sound of Toby quietly yowling. I opened my eyes and looked down at the foot of the bed. There were Toby and Starbuck...
[If you have kids reading, cover their eyes now.]
...having cat sex on my bed. Trying to have cat sex, I should say. They're both fixed. But that didn't stop them from enjoying themselves last night. I swear, I opened my eyes and it was like a freaking porn set, right there in front of me. Toby was like, "Starbuck, baby, you're so hot..." Starbuck was like, "Oh, yeah, Toby, give it to me! Pretend you're not neutered and give it to me right!"
"You dirty little cats!" I yelled, and I pushed them off the bed with my foot. Prudish, I know, but I couldn't help it. I was still half asleep and therefore susceptible to old Catholic learnings.
And now there's an opportunity for, oh, so many punchlines:
1. "I learned it by watching you, Mom!" said Starbuck.
2. "I thought this was where we were supposed to do it," said Toby.
3. "Genitally mutilated cats need love, too!" said Starbuck.
4. "Don't look at us like that! We are not a monster!" said Toby.
5. "It's spring time!" said Starbuck.
6. "Don't be jealous, baby -- it didn't mean anything!" said Toby.
7. "Don't worry -- we're both fixed!" said Starbuck.
8. "Isn't this why you hired me?" said Toby.
9. "Quit staring, you pervert!" said Starbuck.
And... yeah. It could go on and on. Because I'm trying to make light of the situation, here. Because I am so completely traumatized. Oh my gosh. I mean, yes, I did hope that Toby and Starbuck would fall in love. But platonically! In a cute, innocent way! Like those Precious Moments figurines! You know?
Wait, what? Those Precious Moments figurines...? Oh god, no.
Next episode: Shot gun cat wedding at my house. Because, as Marge Simpson knows, you can't have your pets living in sin.
Labels: cats
6:12 AM # (16) commentsSunday, March 23, 2008
How I Spent My Spring Break VacationI ate too much, exercised too much, slept too much, spent too much, and didn't work enough. So, you know, it was awesome.
My kids got back from their dad's today. Before they did, we hid three dozen candy-filled eggs and set up a new badminton set in the back yard. Hot dogs for dinner. Fun, fun, fun.
How Starbuck Spent Her Spring Break Vacation
She went into the backyard several times, under adult supervision. Once there, she explored and practiced climbing the pear tree.
Once, Tad caught a lizard and set it down in front of her. She immediately picked it up with her mouth and carried it into the house. "Oh, no!" the lizard said.
"A new toy, with batteries!" Starbuck said. She dropped the lizard in the living room and batted him between her paws a bit. He ran away and she turned round and round looking for him, stepping on his head with her back paw in the process.
I yelled for Tad to please remove the lizard from my house, before his tail fell off and became another lizard or whatever.
Slightly bruised but still quite alive, the lizard went back to our patio furniture, where he hits on female lizards to this day.
How Toby Spent His Spring Break Vacation
When he wasn't eating, Toby hid under the bed. No, that's not true. Sometimes, he came out to be petted on my bed, and then he sat on my head a couple of times. He tried to get petted on the couch, but being out in public in the daytime was just too frightening.
That's about all I can tell y'all now. Except for the following:
I want to write more, but I can't get my mind straight. I do have at least 3 things to tell y'all, the first of which is my thoughts on Gong Li. But I have to prepare myself mentally before that can happen. I have to get back into the routine. Maybe tomorrow.
I'm thinking about taking the bus to work every day, at least until gas gets cheaper again. My calculations say that it'll save me about $80 a month. It would save more if it didn't cost three damned dollars to ride our park-n-ride. How sad, that $6 per day would still save me money.
My boyfriend (fiance) took half the week off so he could vacation with me, a little, and he's so sad about having to return to work tomorrow. I don't want to go back, either, but he really is kind of depressed about it. Poor guy.
The other day, he and I went on what was supposed to be a 3 mile walk at a local park. (Teresa B, you know which one.) And, instead, we got totally lost on the trails and ended up walking 8 miles. It was brutal. My butt still hurts. And yet I don't think that excursion negated all the calories we ate this week, unfortunately. Oh, well.
I got all my hair cut off a couple of weekends ago. I think I told y'all that, right? I didn't go to my regular stylist for that one because, gosh forgive me, but I didn't think she'd understand what kind of look I was going for. So I went to [chain salon that's supposed to be all awesome], and my hair came out cute but sort of uneven. You know?
So then, a few days ago, I went back to my regular stylist to get some new highlights. And she saw my hair, and I told her what happened, and she was like, "Let me just fix the ends for you."
But she said it like, "Let me just prove to you that you should've come to me, instead." And then she totally re-cut my hair, y'all! And then she razored it until I was like, "Um, it's okay if I don't look like Victoria Beckham." And then she straightened it, like she loves to do, and it did come out super cute... but then I tried to get a photo of it at home, to show y'all, and the photo made me look like a lazy-eyed Liza Minelli. (Sometimes I look like that, at certain angles. Can't help it.)
And... I don't know. I'll upload a picture if I get a cute one. Or maybe I'll just break down and upload the weird picture. Or maybe I'll finally realize that it's not that big a deal, either way, and that people's lives can continue without constantly updated pictures of my hair.
We went to Katy Mills Mall, and someone there had a sign that said, "Happy Easter and Holy Week Sale." And I thought that was weird, that they mentioned Holy Week like that. I mean, I get that suburban retailers in Texas sometimes get good results from pandering to Christians. But... Holy Week? What is that, like, "OMG, y'all, I got the cutest jeans on sale on the anniversary of the day that Jesus was crucified!"? I don't know, man.
We saw a chick get handcuffed for shoplifting at that mall, too. She got arrested on Good Friday, y'all. Saddest part? The store she stole from had a sign that said, "Nothing over $8.98." I'm guessing she stole from Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten line, because she simply didn't consider it cheap enough.
Okay, that's all. More later. Hope y'all had good Easters, or at least good Easter candies, or at least found nice things to buy or steal sometime around the time that some people commemorate some kind of thing. 7:46 PM # (6) comments
Sunday, March 09, 2008
status update1. I cut off my hair. It's shorter than heck. Chin length with long bangs. I'm glad. I'm getting too old for long hair, I think. My boyfriend doesn't think so, but he doesn't have to be a 36-year-old woman with three kids, a conservative job, and razored-to-hell long hair. So I cut it. I took in a picture of Number 6 from Battlestar Galactica, and they cut my hair, and now I look like a mom. But I am a mom, so I'm good. (I might go solid blonde next, though. Screw it -- it's only hair, right?)
2. Toby and Starbuck are inseparable now, just like I knew they eventually would be. I would tell y'all cute stories about them now, but Toby just got on my lap and he smells like vomit, so I'm not in the mood, all of a sudden. I swear: Toby is a dog, not a cat. He always needs a bath.
3. Finally got my signed copy of Rob's book, so I'm reading it in quick bursts while I ride in the car and etc. It's very good. It inspires at least one laugh or one lip tremble per page. He had a nice turn-out at his Houston reading, and he cracked us up, despite the not-quite-hilarious subject. Congratulations, Rob!
4. Uh... seems like I had at least five list items to tell y'all...
Oh, I'm getting ready to take a vacation. From my day job and my kids, for a week, coinciding with Spring Break. Guess what I'm gonna do on my vacation? Work my freaking ass off. I have a novel to finish.
5. Uh... Send me your email address if you want my publisher to send you a coupon for 20% my Growing Up with Tamales kids' book. If you're already on the mailing list, I've taken the liberty of putting you on that list. :) But they promised not to spam y'all with other stuff, so don't be sad.
That's it. More later. Busy, busy day tomorrow. Busy, busy life. 9:03 PM # (4) comments
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Kat Konversationsfor Diane G.
Note: For the following kitty dialogue, the cats' non-verbal communications will be in italics, and their meowed words will be in normal font. Most of their conversation is non-verbal. Luckily for y'all, I can understand and translate their language.
I.
Toby and Starbuck have finally signed a treaty and declared my bedroom to be neutral territory. Starbuck has, therefore, resumed her nightly occupation of the foot of my bed. So I'm lying in bed, recovering from the work day with a sexy domestic magazine, and Starbuck sees her opportunity to spend quality time with me. She does this by jumping onto the bed and lying on top of the next magazine on my list, a foot away from me. Mmm... magazine bed...
ENTER TOBY.
Toby: Are you on the bed? Should I get on the bed? Are we on the bed? Can I get on the bed?
Me: Hey, Toby-binky. Hey, Toby Tonka Truck. Get on the bed.
Starbuck: Oh, jeez. Whatever.
Toby: Hi! Here I am!
Toby steps on my magazine, hits me in the face with his head. His butt is all up in Starbuck's face.
Toby: I have a special offer for you today! You may pet me! A lot!
Toby wedges his entire body between me and Starbuck, falls onto the magazine I'm reading, head butts me again.
Starbuck: WTF? Seriously, WHAT the HELL?
Toby: [Looking into my eyes.] I love you! Do you love me? I love you! You love me! We're a happy... Pet me, please!
Starbuck: Oh, hell no. Eff this.
Me: Starbuck... Wait! Starbuck, we love you, too!
Starbuck jumps off the bed as bitchily as non-verbally possible, and leaves the room. Toby lets out a happy sigh. I remove cat hair from my lip gloss.
II.
It's night. I turn off all the lights in the house and retire to my room. This evening, there happens to be a child in my bed. (Scary movie, potential bad dreams.) The other kid is in his own room, lights out. Lights out in my bedroom. Next thing I know, Starbuck has appeared at the foot of my bed. She is curled up, head down. Ready to sleep. I'm glad, because at first I was worried that Toby was making her nocturnal again. But no. Here she is, and everything's quiet. I roll up in the piece of the blanket my child has allotted me, and close my eyes.
Fifteen minutes of silence. Then, the sound of cat claws clicking far away, across the dining room floor.
Toby: HELLO?
Silence. Then...
Toby: HELLO? IS ANYBODY THERE?
Me: [Calling toward dining room.] Toby! Go to sleep!
Toby What? Who was that? Man. This is, like, so weird. It's happening again. It turned dark, and suddenly no one's around. Why does this always happen? Where'd everybody go?
Me: [Trying not to wake up my kids.] Toby! Be quiet!
Toby: Oh, there's that chick again. Let me go see...
Toby enters the bedroom. I see his giant, half-white body glowing in the doorway.
Toby: HELLO? Hey, you guys! What are you doing? How come you're all in bed with your eyes closed?
Me: [Weakly.] Toby... Please... Shh-h-h...
Toby: Should I get in bed, too? Are you gonna pet me? No? Okay, well, I'll be in the living room if anybody wants me. Just let me know.
Starbuck: Oh, Jesus Christ.
Toby clicks back into living room.
Toby: Doo dee doo... Here I am, walking around alone. Mmm, cat food. Delish! People all over the world... join hands... start a love train... love train...
My child: Can't sleep... Mom! Ricky's wearing that ugly hat again and he's crying all over my outfit for school... zzz...
Me: Why does he only meow at night?
Starbuck: See? You see how I'm being all good here, and he's making noise? This is what I've been trying to tell you. He is bad, and I am good! You need to take him back to the shelter! Oh, damn! [Jumps up and runs from room.] He's eating all the cat food!
III.
Toby has PTSD. We know this now. At some point in his childhood, someone apparently abused him with household items. This is how we found out: I lying in bed, recovering from a long day of broking commercial insurance by flipping through a magazine and talking to my boyfriend on my cell. My cell was also charging at the time.
Me: And then I was like, whatever! And she was like, let me just email everybody as if they care! And I was like, well I will Reply All on that shit, and CC our boss, his wife, and my lawyer! That'll teach her to ask me if I followed up on Alan's file! I'm like, "You follow up on YOUR files, and I'll follow up on MY files, and you follow up on SHUT THE HELL UP." Not even to mention that she's trying to copy my hair color.
Tad: Uh huh.
Toby: Hi!
Me: Oh my God, can they please stop showing these kids from the Hills? Jesus! So anyway, remember I was telling you about that one time a long time ago when I saw that green skirt on sale and it was too small? Back when I was sixteen? And I was like, totally traumatized?
Tad: Uh huh.
Toby: Hi!! It's okay if you want to pet me now!
Toby falls onto my magazine, tearing the Heidi Montag page, and head butts me in the eye.
Me: Jesus, Toby. Toby's here. Oh, guess what. Toby and Starbuck didn't make any noise at all last night. Until 3:30 AM, when they started fighting under the bed. But they stopped at 4:30 AM, when I finally got up and sent them out of the bedroom. I think they're getting better, don't you?
Tad: Uh uh. Not really, no.
My elbow is falling asleep, so I turn from my stomach to my side, temporarily pausing my petting of Toby. As I turn, the charger cord connected to my cell brushes across Toby's ear.
Toby: Oh my God! It's happening again! RED ALERT! RED ALERT! THE VEE-CEES ARE IN THE TREES!
Toby jumps up, makes a warning motion as if to bite my hand.
Me: [Sitting up quickly, so that the charger cord pulls out of the phone.] What the fuck? Toby, what's wrong with you?
Toby grabs phone cord, starts feverishly biting it.
Tad: What happened?
Me: I don't know. Toby just freaked out. I think it was because I turned away from him to talk to you. Do you think he's jealous of you? Do you think he wants me all for himself? Do you think he's emotionally abusive, looking to get into a codependent relationship with me? Oh my god, why does this shit always happen to me? Why am I a magnet for...
Tad: He probably just got scared. You know how he's kind of jumpy.
Me: Maybe. Oh, shoot -- I need to charge my phone. I don't know why it keeps running out of charge so fast... It's not like I talk on it all the time or...
I reach over and take the charger plug from Toby. The cord brushes against his body.
Toby: JESUS CHRIST!
Toby jumps straight into the air, lands near Starbuck at the foot of the bed, and bites the air near her back.
Toby: [Jumping off bed.] Why? Why does the devil cord follow me???
Starbuck: Oh, for the love of...
Me: Oh. I think I know what's wrong with him now.
Tad: Baby, do you mind if I get off the phone and eat dinner now?
Me: Oh, I guess. I'll call you later, okay? [Hanging up, putting phone cord out of sight, turning to Toby.] Toby, come here, baby. Come here.
Warily, Toby jumps up on bed. I reach over to my nightstand and grab the cat brush that's there.
Me: Here, baby. Let me brush you.
Toby: [Jumping off bed, running out of room.] Not the cat brush! Not the CAT BRUSH! No means no! No-o-o-o!!!
Me: What is his deal?
Starbuck: Hell if I know. I told you, you never should have got him from the shelter.
Me: Oh, Starbuck. Come here.
Starbuck: Only if you're going to brush me. Otherwise, shut the hell up.
FIN.
Labels: cats
5:06 AM # (15) commentsMonday, 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) commentsWednesday, January 30, 2008
what happens mostAll day long I look at people doing things they don't want to do, or not doing things they do want to do. It's depressing.
Obviously, most of us have to work for our living. But does that also mean that we have to talk about the weather? Eat bland food? Buy only one bag, and make sure that bag is black so that it goes with everything? Watch whatever they put on the TV at 7 PM? Stay home when we'd really rather be out, doing anything else? Drive by places we'd like to see, but tell ourselves we can't go in, for no reason at all? Wear whatever set of something that someone put on a rack? Keep our opinions to ourselves? Keep our eyes down? Laugh at things that aren't funny? Smile at people we don't like? Do things for people who don't appreciate it, and wait in vain for them to do things for us? Do the same things every day, even if they've never made us happy?
Why, people? Come on and love yourselves better. If you don't, who will?
A Sad Story About Body Image
A while back I hauled my boyfriend, Tad, to the 35th anniversary celebration of MECA, the local non-profit arts organization at which I used to do artsy stuff as a teenager. Someone there had made a DVD compilation of many shows they've hosted over the years. One of them was West Side Story, staged in 1989, in which seventeen-year-old me played Anita.
My boyfriend Tad wanted to see the whole thing, so we borrowed MECA's old VHS tape of the first half. (It's like, three thousand hours long, and no one knows where the VHS of the second half is.) I told the MECAns that I would have it copied to DVD and then return it postehaste.
At home, Tad and I made popcorn (or glasses of wine, can't remember) and settled in to watch the blast from my past. We pushed Play on the VCR (that I still keep plugged in because it's the only way we have of connecting the DVD, the PS2, and the XBOX360 to our TV. I know -- I need to upgrade.)
Just hearing the intro music made me nervous. Then, I saw myself on stage in my red satin dress with salsa petticoats, in the long, brown, curly-haired wig that covered my tacky '90s skater hair, in the flat jazz shoes I had to wear instead of the sexy character shoes that everyone else wore, so that I wouldn't be taller than Bernardo... and the first thing I thought was, "God, I'm so big."
I was 5'9", size 6.
God, I was so big.
I'm not saying that as a former or current sufferer of body dysmorphia. I'm just telling y'all that, compared to everyone else I knew then, I was very big.
Watching the show made me uncomfortable. I don't think I'd ever even seen it before in its entirety, but watching myself on the TV that night instantly freaking transported me into the prism of awkwardness that I was way back then. I saw my lackluster dancing and it made me feel, again, the fear of putting my arms out too far, standing up too straight, and being too big for the stage, my man, and everyone else. I heard my minimalist line recital and felt again the fear of being too Latina or not Latina enough. Too good or not good enough. I looked at my own face and re-felt all the worries, fears, insecurities, and awkward, awkward, embarrassing, humiliating, shame and guilt and insecure, fearful, worried etcetera. All the time. Every day.
"This is terrible," I said.
"This is awesome," Tad said. "You were hot. I wish I'd known you back then. I mean, even though I was only eleven years old and you wouldn't have talked to me. But still."
"I'm so big," I said. And then I told Tad everything I just told you, about the insecurity and the awkwardness and the bleh.
He said I wasn't big at all. He said, "Baby. You were a woman, and those other girls were girls. That's nothing to be ashamed of."
Why didn't he tell me that back then? you're wondering. I don't know.
Anyway. I called my friend Letty, also a MECA survivor, and she told me she often felt the same way. Too big. Not small enough. Weird. Ungainly. Grotesque. Like a monster. Funny how the world can make you feel that way, while simultaneously exploiting girls your age for illegal pornography. You know?
So anyhow. I decided not to have the VHS tape made into a DVD. I don't want that thing. It doesn't make me happy.
I was kind of sad not to see the second half, though. The second half contained my best song -- a duet with my friend Tania, who got the Maria part but wanted Anita, while I got Anita and wanted Maria so badly. I think we did very well, considering that she was the natural alto and I was the second soprano.
Also, the second half contained the "struggle" scene, which was pretty much an attempted rape scene, in which Ziggy Garcia played a white guy Jet who wanted a taste of spicy Anita, and in which I regularly fought Ziggy off, sometimes to the point of hurting him, and once to the point of my wig falling off. That was a fun scene to play. It was cathartic, at least -- all that angst getting channeled into violence. Getting to be angry in front of everybody. Being glad, for the moment, that I was big.
A Sad Message for Twenty-Something Women
I'm going to tell y'all something that a thirty-something woman told me, back when I was in my twenties. Because it was something I never would have known, otherwise, and because I love y'all. Here it is:
The first part of you to get old is your stomach.
Your digestive system, to be exact. That's the first thing on your body to fall apart. When you turn thirty, something on that trail will start slacking on the job. Acid reflux. Constipation. Gall stones. Flatulence. Etcetera.
You'll think back to all the times you heard older people make weird, random-seeming complaints like, "I need more fiber" or "I wish I could eat processed meats" or "Today's one of those mashed-potatoes-only days for me." And you'll be like, "ZOMG! Now I know what they're talking about! And therefore, I am turning old!"
And you'll be right. And you'll be sad.
I'm just telling y'all because I love y'all, and I don't want you to be scared when you turn thirty, thinking that it's only happening to you. It's not. It's happening to us all, and we will all end up eating nothing but mashed potatoes and oatmeal. It's the cycle of life.
Toby Update
1. Starbuck still doesn't like Toby.
2. Toby still feels a need to dig in the houseplant, although I couldn't tell if it was for waste products or just for fun.
3. Toby discovered that food and water taste even better when they come from Starbuck's bowls.
4. Starbuck kind of hates Toby's guts, actually.
5. I forgot to tell y'all the other day that I think Toby's part Siamese, or some other kind of Asian cat ethnicity. You can't really tell in the pics I've shown you, but he has the Asian cat eyes and head shape. When we got him, he didn't really meow a lot. When he got home, I noted that he would meow once, in response to his name. (Smart boy.) But then, last night, at 1 AM, Toby decided he needed to meow. A lot. It was like, "Meow. What's up, y'all? How come everyone's lying down and all the lights are off? What's everybody doing? Why isn't anyone petting me? Hello? HELLO-O-O-O!"
And I was like, "Oh my god, someone's on fire!" as I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen to warm a bottle or catch vomit in my hands or fight off a monster or whatever. But it was just Toby, speaking his mind. He got quiet as soon as I came out and found him. He even stayed quiet when I tripped over his giant cat body in the dark. So I pet him half a time, told him to play quietly, and went back to bed.
Thirty minutes later, it started again. "Hello! You guys! What's up? I thought y'all woke up and were gonna play with me! How come I'm the only one talking? Meow!"
I ignored him so he wouldn't be rewarded for his noise-making. He quieted down. Then, an hour later, he piped up again. But this time it was more like, "Meow yow yow, doo dee doo... Here I am, walking around. I think I'll eat from this bowl. Mm, that was good. Hmm. Why's that other cat hissing at me again? Man, it sure is quiet in here. Hey, what's that out the window? Man, I sure am awake now. Funny how I'm the only one..."
And then I thought that he sounded Siamese. Because isn't that something Siamese cats do? Talk to themselves?
6. I took more pictures of Toby and Starbuck, with a Mexican piggy bank next to each for scale. Didn't have time to post them, though. I'll have to do that later today, after the day job is done.
Shimmy Update
I'm still doing the Shimmies. However, I'm starting to realize that belly dancing in sweatpants and a t-shirt could never be as fun as belly dancing in a hip scarf and sequined bra.
That's how they get you, see. That's how they get you hooked. They make you shake your hips to the too-mellow music, and then you wish you had fake gold coins to keep the beat. Next thing you know, you're spending all your money on costumes and spending all your weekends at the Renaissance fairs.
It's a racket, I tell you. "Sensual dance with mystical origins, as old as the sands of time." Sure. That's how old the hip-scarf-selling racket is. I should have known. 5:21 AM # (13) comments
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Toby updateToby spent the night in my oldest son's room. Starbuck spent the night in the living room, instead of on my bed like she normally does. Was she guarding the whole house from Toby? I don't know. After I woke up, she went into my room, I guess. Moments later, Toby bounded in to say good morning. I petted him. Then I heard this ominous, "Er-r-r-r-r... ERR-R-R-R!" from under the bed. "Starbuck! Be nice!" I yelled.
Poor Toby, after apparently holding it all night, finally went to the bathroom... in one of our houseplants. "No-o-o!" I cried, scaring him across the house. But then he let me carry him back into the hall and show him the real litter box. I'd shown it to him yesterday, but neglected to scratch his paws in it, like you're supposed to. So I did his paws, and he made this face like, "Oh. That's why you showed me this box yesterday. Okay."
Poor thing.
I hope that, once the house is emptied of humans, Starbuck will get bored enough to be a good hostess. Maybe she'll give Toby a tour and let him share a seat next to her at the Bastard-Squirrel-Watching Window.
Avon: What's up with it?
At my work, in the room called Ladies, there's a new Avon catalog with something weird on the back. It says, "Rich, creamy goodness! Moisturizing body yogurt!" And it shows pastel, fruit-scented lotions in yogurt-carton-like containers, with a spoon dipping into one of them.
Isn't that kind of disgusting? Body yogurt? Not only does it sound like smearing food on your body, which is a practice best left to seventies porn, in my opinion, but it also carries the vague connotation of... I don't know. A cure for yeast infections or something? Okay, I'm sorry I said that. But I had to. It was there, in the back of my mind. I'm just not turned on to the body yogurt idea.
Plus, the ad copy: "Rich, creamy goodness." Doesn't that sound like early 2000s blogspeak? Like a phrase a blogger would use facetiously, on a blog called something like, "A Blog of One's Own" or "Randomized Thoughts," to describe Josh Hartnett in a shirtless scene?
You'll be glad to know that I finally found a pair of brown boots.
And I got them on outrageous discount, 65% off. I want to wear them every day. I'm wearing them today, in fact, with a dress they probably don't go with. They look sort of like galoshes with this dress. But I don't care.
Here they are. They look just like that, but darker. That picture is way bright/reddish on my monitor, for some reason.
And, normally I wouldn't link to something I bought in that way, but I really wanted you to see the boots, because I've been talking about looking for brown boots on this blog for, what? Nine thousand years now? And I know y'all have probably been worried about it. It's probably kept y'all up at night, your concern regarding my boot search... So I just wanted you to know you can lay the matter to rest now.
rich people annoyingness
There are certain web sites in this world on which the commenters annoy me with their snobbery. It's usually on sites about fashion or New York that a certain breed of blogsnob will show up and hate on people who buy cheap clothing. They'll be like, "Oh my god, I wouldn't be caught dead in Old Navy. People who shop at Kohl's should kill themselves. I use Banana Republic silk blouses to wipe my nose. I can't touch, share oxygen with, or live in the bourrough of anyone who browses the Barney's clearance racks."
And I always think, "Yeah, right." Who are these people, who brag about their wealth and discriminating taste anonymously, in someone else's blog comments? Who are they supposed to be fooling? Who would care, besides the other faux rich people commenting anonymously?
Then again, maybe they aren't fake. Unfortunately, I've met some rich people in real life who really do believe that either:
a) they're smart for being rich and everyone else is stupid for not being rich, or
b) they're better than everyone else, as evidenced by the fact that they were born rich.
Maybe people who were born rich are better than everyone else (or at least they were, in a past life). But I don't think so. And I'm not just saying that because I was born poor.
Some people think that we're all the same -- that no one is better than anyone else. I don't believe that, either.
I think that being a good person (good person, better person, best person) is based on your behavior. We can't all be born rich, smart, or attractive, but most of us can make the choice to be good -- to treat others as we'd like to be treated -- or to be assholes. And that's the basis on which I set a person's value, in my mind.
All that sounds super elementary and not worth discussing, I know. But I swear to gosh, I really do talk to people on a daily basis who believe that being born with money makes someone a more valuable person. Or that pretty people are more valuable. Or that smart people are. To each their own, I guess. But I hate it when people apply that value system to me. I hate it when someone quite obviously decides that I'm good enough to talk to because they find me attractive enough, or because I've published a book, or because I've pulled myself up by the bootstraps. Don't talk to me if that's why you're talking to me. Don't talk to me if you're an asshole.
(I know some of y'all reading this blog are rich, and some of you are Republicans, and that it sometimes seems like I hate rich people and Republicans. I know this because y'all write to me and say, "I know you hate rich Republicans, but I am one and I still like your blog." I don't hate rich people or Republicans! I know a lot of decent people of both persuasions, and I wouldn't judge y'all on that, alone. :) )
And that ends my rant for today. Come back next time for another petty, judgmental, evil rant.
overtraining
A while back, I was on this here blog pretending that I might take up jogging, and my e-buddy Mike gave me some advice. He said, "Don't overtrain." And he cited an example of his own overzealous exercise and self-injury.
I thought of Mike the other day when I was trying to break through my weight-loss plateau. I'd already walked a couple of miles that day and done a half-hour routine with Gilad. And I was so annoyed at not having lost any more weight, I decided to do some cardio an hour before bed.
And I pulled a muscle in my lower back, and Mike's words floated above my head like the Ghost of Overzealous Workouts Past.
And now my back hurts, and I can hardly exercise at all. And I've only lost 2 lbs this month, when I should have lost 5. And now I just have to eat less, I guess, if I want to meet my goal, which is to lose 20 pounds total by May 1.
If I can't meet that goal, I won't hate myself or anything. But it will be a little disappointing, and it'll set back my plans and my time table for deciding on a Halloween costume. And etc.
But, if all that turns out to be the least of my problems, then I'll be doing pretty well and I'll be relieved. :)
Labels: cats, materialism, vanity, venting
5:30 AM # (7) 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
