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.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
afterwardsI went to Flickr, was disappointed that no one's posted many xmas photos, then reminded myself that I haven't posted any, either.
Our Christmas went really well. Hope yours did, too. We baked. A while back, my youngest son Rory, now 10, had found some retro recipe for cookies shaped like mice. He became obsessed with the idea of baking them for Christmas, no matter how many times we told him that a) they'd be a pain in the butt to make, and b) mice have nothing to do with Christmas. But he wouldn't relent, so we did. We took him on a special last-minute drugstore trip to purchase strawberry flavored licorice for mouse tails. We puzzled out how to get the tails into the cookies -- Tad thought of putting toothpicks into the mouse bodies to keep a hole in place while they baked. But we had no toothpicks, so I thought of rolling up tiny bits of foil. The mice had chocolate-chip eyes and peanut ears. While baking, they each doubled or tripled in weight. We decided they were mice preparing for hibernation. Or else, simply very fat mice. The aluminum tails popped out and the licorice tails popped in (with minimal inappropriate innuendo, heh), and the end result was awesome. Rory's cookies got their own display plate, and he enjoyed showing them to everyone who showed up at our party. And I hope I haven't created a baking monster now. Just kidding. We also made other cookies, and mini rum cakes, and white chocolate popcorn as gifts. And if I had known before how easy it was to work with white chocolate bark coating, everything in my house would have been dipped in it by now...
We didn't do a lot of gifts this year because, like a lot of people who drive cars in America, I'm pretty freaking broke right now, and there aren't any Black Friday sales worth the credit card interest, as far as I'm concerned. So we traded very small, inexpensive things, or else things that we'd made for each other. And, honestly, I think it came out just as well. The kids said it did. Maybe they were just being gracious, though. They're so gracious. My dad came over and gave them all Best Buy gift certificates. Rory asked him the amount they contained. My dad said, in the dry tone I know as his joking voice, "I'm pretty broke this year, so they're $8 each." All three kids thanked him. Then, my dad said, "Either 8 or [way bigger amount], I forget." And I understood that they were of course for the bigger amount. The kids thanked him again.
Then, the next day, Rory told me, "Grandpa gave us $8 each for Best Buy, so that's $24. Maybe we can get a game with that." And he seemed so excited. His brother Dallas somberly agreed that they should pool their $8 cards. I said, "No, babies. He gave y'all [much bigger amount] each. Not $8." And they go, "Oh-h-h-h..." Fifteen-year-old Josh rolled his eyes and laughed. He'd gotten the joke.
Okay, enough bragging about my kids. They're going to their dad's today, for his part of the holiday. It's kind of unfair, because our school district rearranged their calendar again, so I'm getting the kids for almost no time at all. But at least I got them for Christmas. Next year I won't, and that'll be sad. We'll have to bake for Thanksgiving, instead. Because I think we finally started the tradition of it.
I was glad that my boyfriend Tad liked both the inexpensive gifts I got him. Y'all know how mens can be hard to shop for. So it was a relief, to see him look sincerely pleased. He got me three very inexpensive gifts, one of which was the wrong size. ("Oh. I didn't see the sizes on them. I just picked the color.") But that's okay, because I already know what I'm getting for my birthday, which is tomorrow. I found out by accident. I'm excited. (But I hope it's the right size.) More on that later, after I come back a year older and hopefully wiser, too.
sad media agenda
This morning, on our local news, the newscasters were at the malls telling us that all the stores had extra, special, super, duper, slashed-prices after-xmas sales today. Because -- surprise! -- no one sold very much before xmas.
And I'm thinking, if people couldn't afford to buy gifts before xmas, why do the malls think they'll suddenly have money afterwards? And why is the news pushing the idea? Is media conglomeration that bad now? Does Time Warner own Wal-Mart now? I mean, I know you can no longer read magazines without fully expecting them to push the books/movies/music umbrella'ed by their parent companies, but dude. What's up with the newspeople encouraging me to shop today? Give me a freaking break.
It reminded me of the days after 9/11, when George W. Bush told us the best thing we could do for our country would be to shop our brains out for xmas.
Honestly? I like shopping as much as anyone. I'm a straight-up consumerist and it gives me the DTs not to shop on any given weekend, and the signs that say 70% Off call to me like sirens with long, well conditioned hair. But still. Even I have my limits. Don't ask me to shop when every not-rich person in America is broke. Tell Halliburton to shop. Tell Texaco to shop. Tell George W. Bush to shop. I'm not listening.
consumerism!
However.
I do have a couple of gift certificates to spend, so I will do that. First stop: Barnes and Noble. Also, I would like to have my nails done in the trendy style -- short ovals with nearly-black polish. We'll see. I have to count my pennies first.
Last night we caught the tail end of Bad Santa, and I watched Billy Bob ask his fellow criminals why they needed all the crap they were stealing from the department store. Why, indeed? They were stealing tacky trash. I would've stolen way better.
The other day, as I told y'all, my boyfriend Tad and I went to Neiman Marcus, which is an expensive department store, as some of y'all might know. I don't go there often, because their target market seems a little older than me. When I do go, it's to purchase the occasional Bobbi Brown product, and their cosmetics sales peeps are always very cordial.
But we went there the other day to look at the clothing, as I told y'all, and ever since then I keep dreaming about it. I dreamed we were suddenly rich and my boyfriend went to the office of the CEO to speak to him about merchandise. Meanwhile, I waited in the wood-panelled waiting room, and South American women struck up conversations with me in rapid Spanish. I thought, "They think I speak Spanish, and they think I'm rich." Then, I thought, "Oh, but I do, and I am." And then we talked about how much we liked shopping at Neiman Marcus. It was funny.
Tad's brother and s-i-l are rich, and they shop there often. So Neiman Marcus sends them beautiful Vogue-mag-sized catalogs, which they flip through and discard. Tad asks if he can have the catalogs. Then he takes them to my house, where he and my youngest son and I peruse each page and laugh or sigh at the insanely expensive stuff. Tad wants a mink dinner jacket. Rory wants a diamond skull-faced watch. I want a python bag, but I feel sorry for the pythons, that they spend their lives growing so thick, only to end up a bag for some lady. So I'll take a diamond Hello Kitty watch, instead. The one with the white ceramic band. Even though it has Kimora Lee Simmons' name on it, and she's not my type.
Wanna hear a dirty secret? Even though I'm not a teenager anymore, I do still cherish a fantasy that I was meant to be rich. That I'm destined for it, sheerly by virtue of my impeccable taste.
The longer I live, though, the more I suspect that I'm not meant to be rich, because it wouldn't be as much fun. If I were rich, I wouldn't have a reason to shop the most run-down thrift stores anymore. I'd have to do "vintage boutiques," instead. If I were rich, I'd miss the obscene joy of rescuing someone else's Neiman Marcus catalogs from the dumpster.
Labels: Christmas, dreams, fantasies, materialism
12:00 PM # (9) commentsFriday, May 18, 2007
Ghost IssuesI.
Every year of my life, I try to work on my issues and improve myself as much as possible. This year, I'm working on two main things: Eradicating all passive-aggresiveness from my life (not practicing it, not tolerating it from others), and the ghost-issue of control.
I say ghost issue because it's not something that ever really happens, just something I irrationally fear. Like, for instance, here's a fictional example, okay? Let's say I'm fat, and I want to lose weight, because I want to wear nicer clothes for cheap, all right? And let's say that I'm reasonably intelligent and experienced in these matters, so I know how to lose weight. I've done it before.
But, at the same time, I'm afraid. Maybe every time I try to indulge in a fantasy about weight loss, my mind derails and takes me back to a time when I was thin, and someone hated me for it. Very vividly, instead of being able to think of a dress on clearance at Target, my mind calls up a woman who went to my church twenty years ago, who said to me, in front of the priest and everyone, "But I guess with that cute little figure of yours, you don't have to be smart."
Or it calls up the sensation of a man on the bus, twenty-two years ago, who purposely rubbed against me on the way to his seat. Or it calls up something disgustingly inappropriate that I heard someone say to a thin woman just the other day. Or the completely fictional idea of being raped.
And... this is not a real issue. Because, hello--people say rude things around me all the time, whether I'm fat, thin, purple, or green. There are haters and perverts everywhere, and they victimize whoever they can, no matter what. So why should their opinions matter more if I'm thin?
I have an irrational feeling that my control over my own body extends inversely to the minds of the people around me. As if losing ten pounds will make ten more people try to break my boundaries, and therefore force me to be ten percent more vigilant, or ten percent more afraid. I know it's irrational, especially to people who know me in real life and know that I'm way too much of a bitch-face to get sexually harassed very often. But I still feel this irrational feeling, hypothetically, and therefore I have to work through it.
I try to explain it to my friends, and I'm not sure that they understand. One friend does, actually. She says it's probably PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, as we all know, can be worked through. All you have to do is identify irrational thoughts, and then rethink them. Like this:
"A lot of people are assholes, but that's no reason to let assholes affect your decisions on what to do with your life."
There.
(Even the hypothetical not-rude, not-offensive behavior starts to upset me. Just thinking about the fact that when I'm thinner, more people talk to me, smile at me, and like me... bothers the living shit out of me. It makes me want to stay fat, sometimes, seriously. I feel like, the people who like me at this weight are the only ones I want as friends. People who only like women of a certain weight, I don't want anything to do with. But that's a different issue, I think. Not a control issue, but rabid, hypersensitive feminism and anti-lookism, and a deep, futile desire to be respected for my mind. :) One of my friends says that this observation is untrue--that people aren't treating me better because I'm thinner, they're treating me better because I'm radiating more happiness and confidence. But I don't believe her. She's only ever been young and thin, and I've been both fat and thin, both young and not-young, so I think I have more bitter, real-life experience with lookism. Unfortunately. Stay gold, Ashley! Stay gold!)
II.
My boyfriend says I had a lot of nightmares last night.
"You had a lot of nightmares last night."
"I did? No, I didn't."
"Yeah. You were all yelling and trying to run in your sleep. Oh, and you had that one where something's wrong with your hand."
Remembering.
"Oh! Did I wake up and tell you my fingers were broken? I dreamed my fingers were all bent the wrong way, and then I woke up and pulled my hand from under the pillow to make sure, and my hand was asleep, so I thought it really was broken, and then I yelled for you to take me to the hospital. But then my hand woke up, so I went back to sleep."
"You always have that dream when I spend the night here."
"I know. It's because, when you're next to me, I don't have any place to put my hand. We need a bigger bed."
Labels: dreams, lookism, psychobabble, venting
6:04 AM # (7) commentsWednesday, May 16, 2007
Freedom vs PressureThis morning I made an announcement to a couple of friends. "I have given myself permission to stop writing." My boyfriend told me he would support me, if that's what I really wanted. My friend Julio told me I was full of shit.
But that's not what I want, and not what I meant. Of course I'm going to keep writing. I just gave myself permission to stop. Meaning, I don't have to write (or sell) another book right now. I don't have to do anything I don't feel like doing. If I want to paint or sing karaoke for a while instead of writing, I will. If I want to lie in bed and watch TV, I'll do that, too.
Really, I'll probably start a new book soon. But I like doing so without the pressure. And so, I let myself off the hook.
Summertime: Living Is Easy, Grooming Is More Complex
It's getting to be funny now, how exactly like clockwork it is that the sun's heat can change my mind about certain style choices. Before the heat, I can't wear beads or sandals or self-tanner, and I can't even really think about highlighting my hair.
But it's been getting hotter lately. Hot enough for sandals (and therefore pedicures). Hot enough for jewelry I thought was tacky a month ago. (For some reason, metal is for winter and beads are for summer, in my mind.) Hot enough to do my first batch of self tanner, when mere weeks ago I was saying that I'd never do that crap again.
Not yet hot enough for highlights, though. Today I still feel like last year's blond highlights were a mistake--a little tacky--and that I'll never do them again. However, I'm prepared to change my mind by the end of May. Really, it's funny how some things look different in the heat of the sun. I guess the heat just makes me crazy.
Pretty Boys (and a Pretty Girl)
My friend Ashley tells me I have a thing for pretty men. All the actors I find attractive, she says, could just as easily be girls. I don't know why, though. I never noticed til she said.
Last night I dreamed I was dating a very beautiful man, with green eyes and black hair. Meanwhile, an overweight, sad man (with brown eyes) was upset with me because he loved me but I refused to love him back. I tried to explain to him that it's wrong to get pissed off at people, just 'cause they won't love you.
Meanwhile, my pretty boyfriend wasn't very polite, and wasn't very considerate. After I got done talking to the sad man (and my lecture didn't work), I chased my boyfriend through an indoor lake of dark green water. As we dried, I scolded him, saying that he was spoiled. I said I didn't want to date him anymore, because being beautiful had made him a rotten person. And yet, while I said this, I never let him go.
Pretend I'm not talking about my weight.
I stopped trying to do Atkins, because it no longer works for me. In fact, I gained even more weight last month, even though I dieted very diligently.
So now I'm doing it old-school style. I did the math and the science, and now I'm counting calories. I am eating 1600 calories or less per day. (That's how many I need in order to lose weight at a healthy level. Science.) I always thought I'd hate doing that sort of thing, but actually I'm finding that I like the math. It's kind of fun, adding up my meals in my mind before I eat them. And I like that it has an underlying formula: [your weight] X [a variable relating to your activity level] - [500 for one pound a week] or [1000 for two pounds a week]. Also, it's kind of fun to eat carbs again. I admit it.
I'm not telling you this so that weight-obsessed people can come out of the woodwork and give me unsolicited, pitying, patronizing advice. I'm telling you this so that, if it works, you'll know. And also, because I like the math. Really, I'm just telling you that math is fun.
Seriously, though? If I don't lose any weight after a month of this, I'll start freaking out a little. This is the longest I've gone without being able to lose weight relatively easily. I know--I'm getting older, and that's what happens when you get older. But still. The new resistance of my fat is unsettling. I don't mind getting old; I just don't want my body to fall apart in the process. Ha.
Okay. That's all. Next time, I'll tell y'all something interesting. 2:07 PM # (5) comments
Monday, April 16, 2007
dream post for RoseI had nightmares all last night. First, a crazy person I know had swelled to eight feet in height and was trying to get at me through the chain-bolted door. The instruction manual said that, to make her go away, I had to throw my cat into another yard. I grabbed my cat and ran it out the patio door, threw it over the fence. She scaled the fence and stared at me through the chain links. "Why are you doing this?" she said. I sighed, because I knew it wasn't worth explaining, because cats don't understand superstitions.
Later, the psycho came in and made a magical talking worm start telling me about its depression. Boring!
Last night, I lived in my boss's house, which is nightmare enough. I couldn't stop working until a visiting client requested that I play golf. Okay. I got ready. First, I had to check on my boss's wife's baby. Then, oh my god, there were giant lizards in the courtyard. Red and gold. I ran to tell my boss and he did nothing. Then, the lizards were growing, became big and ornate like Chinese dragons. Hungry ones. Mean. There were children all around them, laughing and teasing obliviously. The boss's wife's baby was heavy on my hip, needed to be put down for a nap. Why was I the only one concerned? Why wasn't anyone helping?
I think this medication I'm on (cabergoline) is making me have crazy dreams, because I have them every night, all night long.
recent common dream themes
1. I have to live with my boss, or at my workplace. (This means work takes up a lot of my time.)
2. I have two houses, one in the suburbs that I can afford, and a new one in the city that's beautiful but small and possibly unsafe. I wonder why I accidentally bought the city house, and if I can afford it. (This is related to my desires/fear regarding my day job v my writing career.)
3. I have to deal with kittens or cats. (Used to think this meant responsibilities, but now I think it means creative projects.)
4. I find out my house secretly has a lot of awesome rooms with antique furniture, and I'm excited, but then I find out my ex-husband lives with us and I have to put up with him if I want to explore the rooms. (Same meaning as Number 2, I'm sure.)
And that's all. That's all. No sex, no romance, no flying, no chase scenes. Just the same old worries about my work. And monsters. And babies, and kittens. Jesus Christ. That's why I'm a morning person: I wake up early to escape all that work and get myself some rest.
why I hate Tarot.com
I'm starting to suspect that Rick Levine, who writes the daily horoscopes for Google via Tarot.com, has a Capricorn acquaintance who he hates. A lot. Because I'm Capricorn, and my horoscope is always negative as hell. Even when it's good, it's bad. Old Rick finds a way to ruin it for me. Like: "Capricorn, today you will win the lottery and have sex with anyone you want, with no respite. But don't get too excited yet. Venus is in the Seventh House, which means you should probably look in the mirror and ask why someone who's as much of an asshole as you deserves anything good at all."
You know? I need to find another horoscope, that sounds as true but that's more diplomatic.
classic guilty pleasures
I discovered a new guilty pleasure. Well, I rediscovered a recurring one: Riding in my car alone, singing aloud to '70s rock songs. This is especially pleasurable now that I have a boyfriend who's a little younger than me, who therefore can't tolerate any music without synthesizers.
The other day, on my 1.25 hour commute home, I ran into a good string of singable classic dinosaurs. Led Zeppelin's "Going to California," which has nice octave-jumping lows and highs for me. Then Styx's "Renegade," which is cheesy as hell, but so awesome to wail along with. Then, one of my faves, Foreigner's "Feels Like the First Time."
After that, the DJ says, "And that was Foreigner, number 7 on Rolling Stone's Guilty Pleasures Band List."
And I'm like, "WTF??"
So this morning I tell my boyfriend about that, and I passionately declare that anyone who calls Foreigner a guilty pleasure is just a little bitch who's too afraid of the opinions of others. And my boyfriend says, "I bet Styx is on that list." And I say, "I like Styx," and he says, "I know."
And he says, "I bet Journey's on it, for sure." And I think about that and admit, "That would be a guilty pleasure."
And I brush my teeth, and I think some more, and then it hits me. "I hope Rush isn't on the list. I mean, I know it has to be. But I really love Rush."
My boyfriend nods. He knows. He's heard me sing "By-Tor & the Snow Dog." He didn't want to see that far into my soul, but he had to live through it, for love.
So, this morning, I call up the list. And, guess who's number one.
Damn you, Rolling Stone. Damn you with all the speed of the red barchetta that Geddy Lee's uncle gave him.
Labels: dreams, pop culture, superstition, venting
9:19 AM # (11) commentsThursday, January 18, 2007
Dream Blog! DREAM BLOG!!!Recent dreams:
1. My ex-husband died, and I had to think of a way to tell the kids, and I wondered if I should call my lawyer. (And then I woke up and wondered, if my ex-husband died in real life, how I would find out.) (Knock on wood. I don't hate him, I just wish I didn't have to deal with him. Not that he would die, though.)
2. I was getting ready to go to the prom with my boyfriend. I spent lots of time putting on lots and lots of sexy blue eyeshadow. Then I threw on a wrinkled fuchsia satin dress from my closet. Knee length. My boyfriend showed up and frowned at my clothes. After I begged him to, he admitted that he thought my dress looked cheap. He took me to a costume shop where he knew one of the employees (a white chick). She said she only had a few plus-sized dresses. The ones we found were ugly and hopelessly vintage. She gossipped with my boyfriend instead of helping me look for more. I was annoyed.
3. There were spooky monsters.
4. I left work because of a fire drill or something, and went to the mall that magically appeared across the street. I shopped and shopped, and eventually decided to skip out on the rest of the work day. I didn't even care. I couldn't find any good clothes, but I was glad to be at the mall instead of at my job.
5. Oh, god... Every single day for a week or more, I dreamed that I had a baby, and that I wasn't doing a very good job of taking care of it. Other people were handling the baby while I ran around doing readings or whatever. In a way I was embarrassed about it, but then again I wasn't. But then I felt guilty about not being embarrassed. Sigh.
Real Life!
1. February 17 is Chinese New Year. So begins the Year of the Golden Pig. That means that any babies born this coming year are guaranteed to be rich.
2. I went to the doctor and they told me I gained seven pounds. "But I've been dieting!" I whined. "Maybe it's my boots. They're heavier than my shoes were last time..." Plus, I'm still wearing the same clothes. (So I haven't gained inches, either.) The doctor gave me a paper about weight loss. It had a lot of math and science on it. When he was done explaining it, I said, "But that sounds hard." He said, "I know. That's why I'm fat."
3. The medicine they had me on, for my hyperprolactinemia? Has stopped working. It worked really well for two months, but now the secondary symptoms are coming back. Those are: Every time I get stressed, or excited, or after I eat, or just whenever my blood goes fast, I guess--I immediately have a hot flash, with side orders of nausea and dizzyness. IT SUCKS. But the double periods haven't yet returned.
Please, Lord, help Dr. Smith figure out whatever the hell the deal is. Also, please make my insurance plan stop sucking so bad, because I can't afford to pay full price for my doctor visits for much longer. (Or if it's easier for You to make me have more money, instead, then that's okay, too.)
4. I think my body is mad at me because it wants a baby. I don't want a baby, but I think my body's not used to sleeping with the same person for 3 or 4 years without getting knocked up. (New readers: I am 35 years old, and I have 86 kids.) Hence, my body keeps trying to ovulate twice a month. No matter how much medicine I put into it. I mentioned all that to Dr. Smith, but then he said, "What's that?" and then I said, "Oh, nothing."
5. My Chinese sign is Pig, but nothing I read today said anything about me getting rich this year, in the Year of the Golden Pig.
However, I remain optimistic.
Labels: dreams
9:58 PM # (2) commentsTuesday, November 21, 2006
Eff you, Metro bus dreams.If I found myself stranded downtown without a car, I would call a friend. Failing that, I would call a cab. I have the number for Yellowcab right here on my phone.
Why, then, do I dream on a twice-monthly basis that I'm stranded in downtown (or, worse, at high school) and I have to take the bus? And I don't know which bus to take, or where my stop is? And the bus is full of mean people?
I'm not taking the damned Metro bus, because I don't have to.
I didn't work my butt off to become middle class so that I could get stranded downtown and take the Metro bus.
Eff you, Metro bus dreams. Go to hell, Metro bus nightmares.
Just kidding. I'm not really that angry about the dreams. But I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be poor and then work your way out of it. Apparently, it means you never stop having nightmares about being poor.
Eff you, too, annoying conservative radio show hosts.
Also, lately I've been hearing a lot of ignorant right-wing people in Houston say things about poor people "bettering" themselves. Mostly it's been in response to the proposed minimum wage increase. They say that min-wage jobs are only entry level for "responsible" people and that poor people who really want to will "educate themselves" or "better themselves" and then quickly move up from minimum wage.
Let me make this clear, first of all: I am a political moderate. Also: I can see both sides of the min-wage debate.
However: If you didn't grow up poor, then you don't know how easy or how difficult it is to work your way out of the lower class. And, therefore, you should shut your mouth. Shut up about it. Seriously - you don't know what the hell you're talking about, so just stop talking.
Especially if you're spouting your ignorance on the only radio station in the city that gives traffic reports every ten minutes, and double especially if you have a whiny, poor-man's-Limbaugh voice.
I shouldn't be punished for wanting to avoid slow traffic, dammit. I've already been through enough.
One Last Thing
Do you ever drink something hot while sitting, and then feel little spears of sweat behind your knees?
That just happened to me. But I had to drink this Cup O Soup. It was keeping me alive. 2:45 PM # (3) comments
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Recent Dream Themes1. (Instead of being sad that I have to live in my dad's house, or deciding to clean up my dad's house,) A bunch of irresponsible people have moved into my dad's house, and I have to decide whether I want to kick them out, or clean up their mess, or just party with them and then leave.
2. There's a big vegetable garden at/near my dad's house, and I'm about to harvest the monstrously huge mutant vegetables, with or without the help of my family, but constantly get waylaid.
3. I'm walking near my dad's house, noticing all the insane gentrification going on all around it, alongside abject decay. (That part's straight out of real life.) And then I arrive at a series of antiques stores run by liberal gentrifying white people. And they let me in to browse, because I look like them. But then, I can not resist plotting to steal from their stores.
4. I'm driving to or in a small Texas town near the coast. It's quaint, and yet contains an establishment filled with hipsters my age, including one or another of the hipster white boys I've loved in my real-life past. Nothing happens between me and these boys, but I don't care because I have money now, and I often have my kids with me, too. So I spend money, and being in those towns becomes a mini adventure.
5. Either I find a cool little house I want to rent, or else I discover that the small house I'm renting is secretly way bigger and cooler than I first realized. But then, in either case, I realize that I can only rent this place with my ex-husband, because he's the co-signer on the lease. I feel torn between staying in the house, ignoring my ex, and leaving him for a smaller, less-nice house where I won't have to put up with him anymore. Usually I'm about to leave when I wake up.
6. I have to do a show with the poor-kids musical theater troupe I used to perform in as a kid. Whereas the dreams used to involve me being unable to find a costume in my size, or not knowing the choreography or the words to the songs, now I just improvise a costume from my own clothes and plan to get on stage and improvise the song and dance, as well. And I can't wait to do it, but I always wake up, first.
All my dreams are about money or success, it seems. Very few dreams about love or whatever else.
Every night my boyfriend dreams someone's trying to kill him, or that he's trying to protect people he loves. We think it's because he has sleep apnea, and his mind must manufacture a reason for him to be struggling to breathe.
Sometimes my boyfriend dreams that I'm cheating on him, and it makes him sad. Sometimes I dream that he doesn't love me anymore, and it makes me very sad and angry at the same time. Once I woke up and kicked him, I was so upset. He said he was sorry and we went back to sleep - him so he could protect me from killers, and me so I could make enough money to make our best dreams come true.
Labels: dreams, my sex life
9:21 PM # (6) commentsThursday, August 31, 2006
RecentlyI had a small get-together at my house so my family and drinking buddies could finally see it. It was gratifying to have people compliment my decorating style. (As opposed to being married to someone who constantly ranked on it and called it tacky. As if we didn't live in a MOTHERFREAKING TRAILER.) (Okay, I'm going to quit saying stuff about my former marriage now. I swear, I don't even think about it very often, but then once in a while, something will bring it up.)
I got everyone hooked on DDR and Karaoke Revolution, which is good. Except that PlayStation doesn't give commissions. And the only Karaoke Revolution games they sell at Best Buy anymore are the country music ones. But that's what eBay's for, right?
We made the dining room into a spare living room for the sake of the party. Now, however, I like it that way. We have two living rooms, back to back. Or, I guess you could say, a living room and a den. I like to sit in the den when I'm not watching TV. We moved the dining set to the breakfast nook. If I described how the living room/den look, with two couches and a sectional all in close proximity, it would sound very bizarre. But when I walk into the house it looks nice. Like it has pretty good feng shui. Not that I practice that. But, hey, I feel vibes like everybody else.
Also, Tiffany said that the placement of my bedroom means I'll make more money soon. Awesome.
I mowed the lawn last night, but not until after Josh and I poured gasoline all over the grass, by accident. I was a little worried that, when I mowed over that spot, the lawnmower would explode. Sometimes I'm not too clear on the chemistry and physical science, I admit. I have a weed-eater, but I don't yet know how to use it, so it's waiting in the garage while runners grow around the swing set that the sellers left behind. (That Helen was supposed to pick up, but she didn't. Helen! Come get this swing set!) I'm scared that if I try to work the weed-eater by myself, I'll cut off my hand. Yes, I could always just read the instructions first. But, instead, I'm going to wait for my boyfriend to come over this weekend. Showing me how to work the mower and the weed-eater and the garage door makes him happy. It makes him feel helpful, and that is good.
Also, I am going to buy an electric hedge trimmer this weekend. It looks like a little chainsaw. Maybe I should also buy a hockey mask.
A Dream for Rose Only
Last night, among many other things, I dreamed I walked into a school or something, and a tiger with whom I was formally on good terms growled at me. I hoped it was because I had a bag of McDonald's in my hand, and not because he had lost trust in me and now wanted to kill me.
I set the bag down on the school nurse's counter and told her my theory. Saying it aloud made the tiger comply; he walked up and let me pet his grizzled head. Then I picked him up and held him to my chest, and he was a baby who tried to suckle through my shirt. I asked the nurse for a pacifier but she only had a milk bottle. I asked her for extra milk to top it off, but very soon the tiger/baby held the bottle at the proper milk-dispensing angle and fell asleep in my arms.
(I used to dream all the time about tigers escaping the zoo and walking the streets, keeping me terrified in my dad's house. I guess I'm over that now.) 8:55 AM # (3) comments
Monday, August 28, 2006
For Rose AloneLast night I dreamed I sat in a biology classroom filled with other adults. The teacher informed us that a computer program had deduced the identity of Superman down to three possible names. He handed out a hand-out. The three names were:
Gwen Zepeda
Gwendolyn Zepeda
Gwendolyn Dough
Was the third one supposed to be me, or was she Superman? I figured it meant me, but I knew I wasn't Superman. Not that I knew of. At first I kept quiet, didn't want to identify myself because Lex Luthor was sitting right next to me at our lab table.
Then I decided it would be safer to out myself. "Those are my names," I said after raising my hand, "But I'm not Superman. Unless it's Gwendolyn Dough. Unless that means me."
Lex Luthor turned to me, suddenly interested. He made probing small talk, asking how long I'd lived here in the suburbs.
All the while I wondered if Superman might actually be a woman. What if he actually was me, and I just didn't know it yet?
I started to feel regret, then, for having identified myself aloud.
Labels: dreams
2:01 PM # (4) commentsFriday, August 11, 2006
Two Uncomfortable Dreams of SeductionI.
I was in a room at a house party with a man I used to date. He was trying to seduce me. It made me uncomfortable. He knew I had a boyfriend to whom I was faithful, but didn't care. I had the impression that he would easily become angry if I didn't have sex with him. I was a little afraid. I don't know how I got out of it, but I did.
Later, I was in the room with a very pretty girl I used to know. She was trying to seduce me. We kissed. I felt uncomfortable. I knew her to be a person who needed constant male attention to bolster her horribly low self esteem. I wondered what her real motive was in trying to seduce me. Was she treating me like a man? Was she trying to impress a man? I didn't think that she actually liked me for myself. Still, at the same time, it occurred to me that I had never seen her breasts before, even though many other people had, and I'd seen many other people's. I decided to see her breasts before I ended the seduction.
II.
I was at a restaurant with my friends, having a semi-good time. There was chaos that somehow ended up with me being at a house with an older man from my work. It seemed, afterwards, that he had manipulated the situation to make that happen. We were in a darkened room in my dad's house, actually. My boss was in the adjoing, doorless room, working at a desk. The older man from my work had rented some "hip" indie film that he'd thought I'd like to see. He put it on the VCR and he and I lay on a mattress on the floor, as that was the only seating in the room. The older man made friendly conversation, then eventually told me something like, "I think you're a really nice young lady. Let's go to my place and have sex tonight."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to refuse but, for some reason, I felt was too embarrassed to do so while my boss could overhear us. As if the older man's behavior was excusable, but I couldn't say or do anything sexual in my boss's presence, even if it was refusing sex. I was still trying to think of a response when a twenty-something man with red hair (no one I know, but supposedly an acquaintance in the dream) showed up and plopped down beside me on the other side of the mattress. He made no advances, but I smiled at him in relief and the older man got up and left in a huff.
Mere seconds later, I had a typewritten note from the older man in my hand. It said something like, "My apartment is clean and spotless and full of expensive things. Let me know if you change your mind and want to come to my apartment tonight instead of staying with that young guy with no money." The paper was stained like recipe books get stained, with spots of grease and flour.
I was amused by the note and relieved that I'd gotten out of the uncomfortable situation. But still wary, knowing that wouldn't be the end of it.
Labels: dreams
9:41 AM # (7) commentsThursday, July 13, 2006
Time to Whine!I'm slightly stressed because tonight is the last night I have to finish up my novel revisions. Deadline is tomorrow at 1 PM, which is also the time I need to be on the road, on the way to Austin to spend the weekend with my kids. Oh, and I haven't packed for that trip, yet.
When I come back, I need to hurry the hell up and pack everything in my apartment, then arrange times for all my post-closing house repairs and renovations. Then, on Friday, I close.
I have until August 1 (that means one and a half weekends) to get out of my apartment and get as much unpacked and set up as possible. Because, on August 1, I have to drive to Austin to pick up my kids and bring them home from their summer baby-daddy visitation.
Then, three days after that, they go to Austin for a normal baby-daddy-visitation weekend. Meaning that I get to drive to Austin again that Sunday to pick them up. Then, after that, we have one weekend to get all their school clothes before school starts on August 16.
Did I mention that my work commute will increase from 2 minutes to 45 minutes to an hour? Oh, and I still don't yet know where I'll be putting my kids after school.
But first, before I worry about any of that... I need to finish my novel revisions. Tonight.
I think I can do it. It should be easy. Ain't I a woman? Ain't I, to be precise, a single mom and novelist with a full-time job? Am I not Devo?
Okay, that didn't make sense, I know. Probably a symptom of very slight stress. (Or PCOS. That reminds me - I also have to go to the doctor next week and let her know that my PCOS treatment has stopped working. If you don't know what PCOS means, don't worry. I can sum it up for you very simply: I'm eggless, I probably have diabetes, and I must carry emergency feminine hygiene products in my purse at all times. And I'm fat, but no one knows if the fat is the symptom or the underlying cause.)
I have nightmares every night, but they no longer bother me. This week's have included lost babies, mean bosses, car crashes, and cannabalistic puppies. The puppies were due to the fact that the kids' dad just informed them that he's getting rid of all their puppies. Unless, of course, their mother would like to take the beloved puppies to her new house on August 1.
Really, now that I've typed all this out, it doesn't sound like much. I'm pretty sure I can handle it.
I'm looking forward to our housewarming party, actually. 3:31 PM # (13) comments
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Me and SantinoLast night I dreamed that Santino and Daniel V. (these are Project Runway contestants) had a secret romance going on. I saw them making out on the floor of the basement of their workroom. I don't know if this happened on the show, in my dream, or if I saw it because I was in New York.
Either way, then I dreamed that Santino and I opened an art gallery together. We were working to fill it with our own work. I was very excited, partially because I had some really good, big pieces in progress, and partially because some guy (Nick, maybe?) showed up offering to be my assistant, reminding me of past awesome visual sculptures and stuff I'd done. (I've never done any in real life, though.) Then, some lady showed up with a bunch of Mexican pastries and candy that Santino and I tasted because we were considering stocking it in our gallery snackbar.
This dream was about the fact that I've been missing doing art and eating sweets. I was enjoying myself until my assistant and I had to visit a class for poor, disadvantaged children. I told myself, "Don't get too involved with these brats, because they'll just take you away from your art." But then I did get involved, because they desperately needed discipline and education. They were smoking and watching TV in class.
That seems like it might be about my kids taking me away from my art, but I don't think so, because my kids aren't such a pain in the ass. It's more about the stupid responsibilities I have to spend time on every single day. I feel good about myself when I get stuff taken care of, but it takes time away from the stuff I wish I could *really* do.
Regarding last night's episode of Project Runway: Even though I've been saying all along that Daniel's collection wasn't all that, I felt sorry to see Tim impart that to him, and call his purses crafty and woodshoppy. It's not even that Daniel's stuff is bad - it's just very subtle for the times. People are all depressed about inflation right now. They want to wear something flashier to cheer themselves up and avoid reality.
Also, I've been wanting to tell y'all that someone on Television Without Pity's PR forum said that Daniel's stuff looks like Spiegel. I wanted to add that Santino's stuff, therefore, looks like Arden B. (But I never comment on their forum because I forgot my password, and I'm too embarrassed to bring it up, seeing as how I used to write for them and all.)
One last thing: I know a lot of people hate Santino, and for a few moments at the beginning, I hated his rudeness, too. But I have to admit that, way back during the Lingerie Challenge, when he told the makeup artist, "I want them to look like deer," I irrevocably loved him as an artist. And whenever I see his Bavarian deer models in the rerun of that ep, it reinforces that love. Because he did not give a DAMN, y'all.
The Not-So-Bad Things About Getting Older
1. A lot of people don't remember or appreciate the music of your childhood, but it's okay because that makes it more of a secret pleasure for you, then, and we all know that pleasures are more pleasureable when they're secret.
2. You drive more safely without caring what dumb kids in Camaros think of you. And that's better, because it keeps you from dying as much.
3. In general, whether driving or not, you care less about what dumb kids think of you. Screw them if they don't like it. You are old and you make more money, and you remember electric guitars and they don't.
One Very Bad Thing That Starts in Your Thirties, That No One Will Tell You Directly (Except Me)
Your digestive system starts falling apart. Bit by bit, part by part. And you find that you can't eat the foods that you used to think nothing of eating.
For instance, I ate a chopped baker yesterday, and realized last night that, instead of going to Mexico this summer, I should have my gall bladder removed, instead.
Labels: dreams, health, pop culture
8:05 AM # (8) comments
