Gwen's blog

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I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.

On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.

On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.

Thursday, January 03, 2008
Happy 2008

Did you have a good New Year's Eve? We did. My boyfriend Tad and his friends threw a party. At first, no one RSVPed on our Evite, because they all had clubs or hotel parties to attend. So we assumed it'd just be our core group of four couples, minus the couple who just had a baby. I thought we'd just drink and play cards, you know?

But a couple of people showed up. Then, as the night went on, people would call one of the hosts and ask what we were doing. And the host would say, "We're staying home because we don't want to mess with parking and traffic and the weather and all that shit. Come over if you want." And, by midnight, we had a pretty sizeable group of people, many of whom I'd never met before, but all of whom were awesome. Has that ever happened to you -- that you throw a party and it lines up with the planets such that every single person attending is either smart, funny, sexy, or all three? No jerks, no vomiting? That's what happened. Everyone was awesome, even to the point that they helped us clean up. Tad went to bed at 5:30. I went to bed at 7 AM, only because the sun was coming up and the people I was hanging with in the garage had a long drive home.

It was fun. It was a good start to the new year.

Quick List of Recent Annoyances

I have to get this out of my system.

1. People who block the intersection on red lights.

2. People who look at your jacket and scarf and gloves and not only have to let you know that they aren't bothered by the cold, but that you're a wussy/whiner/baby for needing a jacket. Bonus annoyance: Flashing back to that 80 degree day last summer, when you were comfortable but that person was sweating profusely and whining about the heat, but you sympathized with her, because you're not an asshole.

3. People who bring up your good news in conversation, and then call you a show-off because of it. Like, "Have you lost weight? Show off!" or "Is that a new blouse? Show off!" or "Are you a generally happy person? Show off!"

4. People who go out of their way to look cool, and who ignore you at social gatherings because you don't look cool enough, and who pretend not to recognize you in public, even though you've met them more than once. Bonus annoyance: If/when those people later decide you're cool ("You write books? I'm trying to write a book! Who's your agent? We should have lunch!") and suddenly act all friendly, as if their previous rudeness never occurred.

5. Networking events, because they're completely filled with people like the ones described above, and because I don't want to walk around with cheese and cheap wine in my hands, being judged by these people. And I don't like bragging that I'm a writer ("Show off!"), especially not to people like that. I would rather sit home and write, or attend a party where everyone already knows I'm a writer and no longer cares, or stand up on stage and read my books to people who are there because they like my writing, and not because they think I can do something for their careers.

6. People who dislike you and go out of their way to show it in the pettiest way possible (by forwarding jokes and "inspirational" emails to everyone in the department but you, by bringing baked goods and personally informing every person in the department except you)... but then expect you to greet them in the halls and introduce them to your boyfriend and/or fiance. And make a face of disbelief when you ignore them. As if you would want to contaminate your boyfriend and/or fiance with the misery that exudes from their pores.

The planets have plans for you in 2008. Even Planet Pluto. Even Planet Chiron.

All my horoscopes, as well as the moon phase planning guide my dad gave me for Christmas, have been telling me that this is the year I will succeed... if I first examine my habits and attitudes, and get over something I've been reluctant to get over.

I'm thinking it's the networking thing. Planets Pluto, Chiron, and Blitzen, in my Fifth House of Marketing, are asking that I get over my reluctance to brag and start up some serious self-promotion. (Say it: "Show off! SHOW OFF!")

There are things I've wanted -- writerly things -- that I've been afraid to ask for because I don't think I'm good enough yet. Like grants, or writer jobs, or bigger speaking fees. Because, you know, I'm never good enough, in my own mind. (If I were already good enough, I wouldn't have to work so hard, would I? :) )

Meanwhile, though, I see people with far fewer credentials than me, and they're getting the things I want. They're like, "Hi! I'm Mindy! I'm a writer!! My friend published my poem in his zine, and I have a novel outline in a shoebox under my bed!!!" And they're now teaching Creative Writing at Purdue. Or whatever.

And now it's to the point where even I think it's ridiculous. You know? I'm like, "Gwen. Come on. Seriously. What the hell are you doing? Stand up, declare yourself, and get what's rightfully yours."

But... I don't want to. You know? That's a difficult thing for me. You think I'm a narcissist, and you're right, but I'm still insecure, and I still have deep-seated fears of people calling me a show off. What happened to the time when writers could just stay home, drinking and writing, mailing pages to their agents, and get paid? Offered jobs? Showered with appropriate amounts of recognition, no matter how hard they tried to hide?

Maybe those days never really existed. The more experience I get, the more I suspect that those myths were carefully manufactured by people who were really good at networking.

So that's my first resolution for this year, then. Get over the last vestiges of insecurity, and move on with my life. I might regret posting all this, later today. If so, that probably means it really needed to be said.

All those long paragraphs were written in order to weed out the anti-fans

, the haters, the misery spreaders, the train-wreck seekers, the ojo givers, the bad vibe emanators.

All of those people are gone now and their negative energy has dissipated. So I can tell you: I'm engaged. Tad and I are engaged now. It happened on my birthday. I am happy.

And that's all the news on that now. There's no date set. Therefore, I can't answer questions about any weddings, any babies, or any shared funeral plots. (His sister's literal first question, upon hearing the news: "But aren't your tubes tied?" My response, "Uh, no, they aren't. Wait... what? the? what?") (I love his sister, though. Love you, Susan!)

I will say this: Even though I'm a feminist and I believe that marriage is an outdated institution and that society pressures people to conform to ridiculous, meaningless traditions... etc.... I did get this little frisson of excitement when I realized that I now have every right to peruse bridal magazines.

Even though I've seen them before, and I think they're boring, and I know they're all from the perspective of a culture that's neither Tad's nor mine. So I don't really even want to look at them. But I like knowing that I can, now, without worrying about what other people think.

So that's my good news, y'all, and that's all for this entry. Hope y'all's 2008 is good so far. I hope your planets are all lining up.

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Monday, December 03, 2007

A Plainclotheshorse

Sometimes I want to tell y'all what I find at the thrift stores, and maybe post pictures of my finds, but then I don't, because I've realized that I like pretty boring clothes.

Today, for instance, I am wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a fuchsia silk cardigan ($1.91 with orange tag markdown). And black loafers. And no jewelry, because I forgot it. And that's pretty much about as exciting as my wardrobe gets, unless I bust out a dress or the knee-high boots or something.

The other day I found a brand new pair of brown, unembellished, Unlisted loafers at my second-favorite thrift store, for $6.97. I found one of them on the floor, and I searched the store until I found its mate. And I was so ecstatically happy. "I should take a picture of these and put them on my Flickr page!" I said to myself. Then I realized how underwhelming a picture of brown loafers would be.

Oh, well. I'm still happy about them.

But, if you'd like to see something semi-exciting, go on over to my Flickr page and see that paintings I did to go above my fireplace.

The YouTubes and the CSSes and the BloggerWriters and the InterWebs

I feel kind of sad about the fact that I haven't posted anything on YouTube yet. I feel un-Web-pioneer-y. I even have stuff to post -- two or three readings and lectures I did that people were kind enough to videotape for me and then make DVDs for my use, to post on YouTube as I'd promised I would. And I haven't yet done it. I even have the video editing software on my computer. I just haven't had time to get it done.

Other information highway merge lanes I haven't had time to drive on:

How do y'all web mavens have time to do all this stuff? Is it because you do it as a career? Is it because you don't have 28 kids, like I do? Are you doing it at your day jobs? Are you tricking high school students into being your web content interns? Help me, ObiWanKenobis. Tell me your secrets.

It just takes time, I guess. Maybe I can do something on the web, next time I feel like painting a bunch of birds and hanging them up above my fireplace.

Weekend Adventure: Farmers' Market

One of my kid's friends spent the weekend with us, which was all the excuse we needed to conduct weekend adventures. We dragged that little boy to the Asian grocery store to see the live frogs and purchase cha siu for the fried-rice feast my boyfriend later cooked. We dragged him to a park that we'd never seen before, and that park ended up having bison and pigs and emus, oh my! We sought out a new (to us) carniceria, next door to our second favorite panaderia and ate a fabulously traditional Mexican Sunday breakfast of tacos, pastry, and insanely spicy hot sauce.

After we dropped the boy off at his home, my boyfriend dropped me off at my favorite thrift store for a few hours, which is always a very exciting adventure, for me at least. (Three skirts in gray and taupe! A light blue button-down!) Then we reconvened at Empire, which is the best coffee house in Houston.

(Please don't write and tell me that Brazil or Dietrich's are the best. They aren't. Empire is. Sorry.) (Just kidding. Feel free to tell me which is your fave, and why. I always want to know y'all's fave restaurants in Houston, okay?)

Best of all, though: We went to the farmers' market on Airline, which neither Tad nor I had been to since we were children. The Airline farmers' market is, as my youngest son put it, a "fleamarket of food." Their restrooms are nastier than those of the nightclub #s. But still -- they have beautiful fruits, vegetables, spices, and herbs for dirt cheap. We're going back again very soon. Every single week for the rest of our lives, maybe.

I've been meaning to tell y'all this for weeks now...

I no longer like Billy Joel's music.

You know why? Because, the other day, I heard a song of his I hadn't heard since I was a kid with snot running down my nose and no sense of what was happening in the world. That song was "Big Shot."

Here is the chorus and two verses of the song:
Because you had to be a big shot, didn't you
You had to open up your mouth
You had to be a big shot, didn't you
All your friends were so knocked out
You had to have the last word, last night
You know what everything's about
You and to have a white hot spotlight
You had to be a big shot last night

They were all impressed with your Halston dress
And the people you knew at Elaine's
And the story of your latest success
Kept 'em so entertained
But now you just can't remember
All the things you said
And you're not sure you want to know
I'll give you one hint, honey
You sure did put on a show

Well, it's no big sin to stick your two cents in
If you know when to leave it alone
But you went over the line
You couldn't see it was time to go home

What the hell is this guy's deal? The narrator of this song is mad at some chick because... why? Because she talked a lot? Because her friends were "knocked out" and "entertained" by her stories? Because she wore an expensive dress?

Maybe I'm just reading way too much into it (as I will sometimes do with lyrics when I'm in my van, listening to the radio during my 1.25 hour commute), but it sounds like the narrator just can't hang with women getting attention. Maybe attention that he feels is rightfully his?

Read those lyrics, then consider the lyrics to "Uptown Girl," which Mr. Joel presumably wrote later:
Uptown girl
She's been living in her uptown world
I bet she's never had a backstreet guy
I bet her momma never told her why

Uptown girl
You know I can't afford to buy her pearls
But maybe someday when my ship comes in
She'll understand what kind of guy I've been
And then I'll win

Watch out, uptown girl! Don't do it! Don't marry this backstreet guy, because every time you want to have a little fun with your friends or dress up a little or tell anyone about your accomplishments, he'll ridicule you and your white-bread world. Then, years later, after he's erroded your self esteem, the two of you will divorce and then he'll replace you with a younger woman too meek to hold her own on a cooking contest show!

Just kidding. Heh. I'm sure Billy Joel is a very nice person, and his song narrators are no reflection of his own views on women. I just like to listen to music and make up funny little stories for myself when I'm alone in my van.

When I was a child, I memorized lyrics without thinking about them. I also liked Billy Joel and hated Bob Seeger.

But now that I'm older, I can't help but think about lyrics. Do I want to listen to songs that say "Ha, ha, you rich bitch, I did donuts on your lawn with my motorcycle," or lyrics that say "I had sex with a rich woman in Hollywood and it was awesome, and now I'm an old, worn-out cliche of a rock star and I only have myself to blame"?

Or do I want to go back to my old favorite, with lyrics that say "It seems like we really hate women, but then again, we did steal most of this music from black musicians nowhere near as famous as us"? Now that Led Zeppelin's having a little comeback, I mean.

Silverfish, silverfish! It's Christmas time in the city!

I decorated our Christmas tree (Douglas fir, $17 at Lowe's with $10-off coupon) last night.

I'm not even going to tell y'all about the all-new holiday trauma tradition we started, which involved the whole family and the meticulous slaughtering of the silverfish that have been breeding in our garage, in the boxes that came over from our apartment more than a year ago, which contained all our Christmas ornaments and decorations.

I'm not even going to tell you about it.

Suffice it to say that tree is up, the garage is clear, and my children will grow up with beautiful holiday memories -- the strains of "Deck the Halls" intertwined with the dulcet tones of their mommy's voice, screaming, "There's one! KILL IT!" and "Bang it on the floor until they all fall out!" and "Because I gave birth to you, that's why!"

Beautiful. Priceless. You're welcome, kids. I love you, too.

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Saturday, November 24, 2007

reminder of what I have

2007 has been a disappointing year for me, for various reasons beyond my control. A year of rejections, failures, unexpected expenses and medical dramas. I'm calling it, in my mind, a year of learning experiences and character strengthening.

The one thing I have been able to control is my own body--namely, how much I eat and how much I exercise. (And I know that's the seed of anorexia: focusing on controlling your own body when you feel powerless to control anything else. But don't worry; I'm very, very far from that.) So I've failed at increasing my income this year, but I succeeded at decreasing my weight.

So I need new clothes. And I'm broke. And I have a whole wardrobe of clothing that doesn't fit me anymore. So I thought I'd have a garage sale. But I couldn't, because my neighborhood association won't let us. And no one else I knew could get it together to have one... and selling clothes on eBay or Craigslist is too much work for too little money... But I was hoarding these bags of too-big clothes, thinking I'd sell them one way or another and then use the money to buy new clothes.

And then, the other day, my friend Letty, who works for the local women's shelter, called me up. I was walking around the clearance dress racks at Macy's when she called, in fact. She said, "Do you still have those clothes that are too big for you?"

I said yes. She said, "Would you consider donating them to the shelter? They just called me and said they desperately need clothes in that size."

I said uh, yeah, I guess, maybe. She said, "You don't have to give them all of it. They just really need work clothes and underwear."

I said, "Underwear? Y'all take underwear? I was just gonna throw mine away. I never donate underwear because that's kind of weird, you know? I mean, who wants old underwear?"

She said, "Well, sometimes women who come to the shelter have just been raped. So their underwear gets cut off of them when they're being examined. And, you know, we have clothes to give them, but we don't always have underwear--especially in the bigger sizes. So, you know, they just come to us..."

And I said okay, and I went home and got all the clothes together. And I went through my underwear drawer and pulled out the stuff that was fit to give away, and I tried not to think about how horrible it would be to have your underwear cut off, and then to move to a new place, full of strangers, with borrowed clothes and no underwear on your body. Or to try to start a new life with nothing but borrowed clothes, or literally no clothes at all. Not a wardrobe full of things that are a little too big, not a closet full of things you're a little bit tired of, but literally nothing.

Houston Area Women's Shelter needs larger sized work clothing and underwear, y'all. Especially sizes 20 and up. And winter coats. And toilettries. And diapers. And everything, all this stuff we take for granted.

winter storage

I gave Letty the clothes and then we had lunch, and we talked about a lot of stuff. I've known Letty since Kindergarten, and we don't have lunch as often as we should, but when we do, we always end up discussing massive things. Because we are massive-issue-discussing friends. Which is good. It unblocks our minds.

One of the things we talked about was fear of poverty versus the ennui of middle class existence. Most people educated in America know of middle class ennui, because we read about it. It's like, the prevailing experience of our literary canon, right? So I knew about it, but I didn't really understand it until I became middle class.

I just bought a house, and Letty's agonizing over whether or not to buy a house, and we both see now what it is--a huge financial commitment to a lifestyle you're not sure you want to live for the life of your mortgage. And, if you fail (foreclose), then you aren't just a failure--you're a failure with worthless credit. Marked for life.

And Letty's been wanting to go to grad school, but says she's afraid to be broke. AKA poor. (I hope she doesn't mind me telling you this. Letty, tell me if you mind and I'll delete.)

Assuming everyone reading this has a little money, and therefore access to a computer and time to read this entry: Did you grow up poor? If so, then you know what it means to be afraid of returning to poverty. Did you grow up rich or middle class? If so, know that all your friends who grew up poor and scratched their way up are secretly, desperately afraid to turn poor again.

So I understood what Letty was saying, on the house count and on the grad school count. And I told her that, even though having a house makes me completely broke (AKA land-poor), I don't mind because this time, I'm controlling my poverty. This time, I look at my budget and make conscious decisions. There's no shame in being broke--in eating ramen noodles, buying thrift store clothes--if I've made the decision to do so in order to hold on to my house. And, if I decide to sell my house and go back to renting, it'll be a slight failure, but again, something I controlled.

So... yeah.

It's winter now in Houston, finally. And it's the holidays. That means that, all over town, people who grew up poor are experiencing PTSD, and coping with it in various ways. Turning the heat up high. Not turning the heat up at all. Spending lots of money at the mall. Not spending money at all. Clinging to family. Avoiding family. Reliving old habits and trying to make sense of them. Creating new habits and trying to move on.

I turned up our heat a little today, because I think it's worth paying to be warm. I've been taking things out of storage--things people gave me that were kind of a pain to store all summer when we lived in an apartment. Tea pot. Coffee press. Warm slippers. Sweaters and coats.

And you know what? I'm glad I have these things, and people who love me enough to give them. And I'm especially glad that I have this little snail-shell house. Meaning it's heavy on my back, but it holds all the things that we need. In all senses of those words.

DJ Drama

Last night we went to local club Rich's to see Felix da Housecat. Because he always puts on a good show, and Rich's is our favorite venue. And, guess what? Felix wasn't there. There was a hand-written sign on the register saying he was in the hospital, and that cover would be free, and that our pre-purchased tickets would be good for when Felix rescheduled.

I hope he isn't really hospital-worthy sick. I hope he just felt like flaking. But if he's really sick, I hope he gets well soon.

The opening act DJs did their best to make it up to us. They did a pretty good job.

After Rich's, we went to South Beach. South Beach is one of Houston's premier gay clubs. The reason we go there is JD Arnold. JD Arnold is, pretty much, Houston's best DJ. He used to work at Rich's for years and years and years. Then he went to South Beach (which is, incidentally, the phoenix risen from the literal ashes of hate-crime-ruined Heaven, as some of you will remember).

And then, JD Arnold left South Beach, apparently. Recently, I think. Because he was there last time we went, several months ago, and now he's not.

"What happened to JD Arnold?" I asked the door guys.

"Who?" they said. "Who is that?"

"Hey, what happened to JD Arnold?" I asked a bartender who was running around.

"Who?" he said, just like the caterpillar with the hookah in Alice in Wonderland.

A bunch of employees gathered together, then, and complained about some customer hitting on or failing to hit upon one of their number. I was kind of tipsy, so I said it again. "Hey, you guys, what happened to JD Arnold?"

They looked at each other, made faces, rolled eyes, and said in a haughty chorus, "Who?"

Then I got it. "Y'all are mad at him, aren't you? Y'all are, like, never saying his name in this club again?" They lifted eyebrows and scattered like feathers on the wind.

I still don't know what happened. South Beach hasn't updated their web site, either.

Last month we went to see DJ Sasha at Bar Rio. I know none of y'all listen to the music I listen to, and y'all probably just mentally blip over my long descriptions of the DJ shows. But, if you've read this far, know that in my fantasies of a post-lottery-winning wedding, I'm wearing a fuchsia silk cheongsam with embroidered peonies, and Sasha is DJing our reception. Got me?

A man called Spooky opened up that night, and he did very well. He's an older guy, looks like an extra on a Lord of the Rings set, in t-shirt and jeans. Not ranking on his looks at all--just saying he didn't look like you might expect a DJ to look. But he played like a mofo, so we loved him with all our hearts, right at that moment.

Then Sasha came out, and I was so, so excited, and I was right up there in the front where I could breathe his air...

... and he played this set that he later described as minimalist (in response to complaints, I think), but which I would describe as easy-listening techno. And I was sad, and disappointed. And I respect that he wants to try new stuff, and that he may be chilling out as he gets older, but, dude...
don't come to a dance club and play undanceable music.

Now I'm thinking JD Arnold will have to play at my wedding. If anyone can find him. If he hasn't been run out of Houston by the local velvet mafia, I mean.

crafting, baby

I painted a bunch of paintings--commercial interior dec stuff like they teach you to do on Trading Spaces--and they came out nice, and I'm happy. And it felt good to make stuff off the top of my head, with no pressure.

Try some crafting today. Start a holiday tradition. Put your dinette set in storage and make your family a crafting room. Let the cat help by stepping all over your drying canvases. (Because, of course, mine did. Thanks, Starbuck!)

Okay, that's all. More later. Thanks for listening.

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Tuesday, August 28, 2007

No One Knows What It's Like to Be the Fat Pants

Okay, so only some of y'all will recognize this feeling that I'm about to describe. But I'll go ahead and describe it. You know how, when you cross the peril-fraught borderline between PlusSizeLand and MissesWorld, suddenly PlusSizeLand, the land in which you've lived for so long, looks like total hell?

I've yo-yo'ed back down to the weight at which I can shop at the roomier not-plus-size stores, and in the Misses' sections of department stores. Granted, I'm only talking about tops and skirts, here -- not pants -- and I still have to root for XLs and the biggest of the misses' number sizes on those tops and skirts.

So I went shopping last week, for myself as well as for my kids, because most of my clothes have gotten cartoonishly big and I needed a few new things. First, I rooted through all the misses' stuff and picked out the few XL items I liked. Then, if I didn't get very much there, I'd shift up to the Women's World sections, or on to Lane Bryant.

And you know what? I didn't want to shop in those places anymore. Just looking at their mannequins made me feel ill. You know why? No, not because I hate my former fat self, or because I didn't want to be reminded of it. It was because women's plus size clothing is UGLY. It's so effing ugly.

You don't realize, if you've been shopping in plus size for a while, how categorically ugly it is. Or maybe you do, and therefore you hate to shop. That's how I'd been for the past couple of years. I hated to shop, and when I did shop, I only bought the simplest things. Black pants and solid color shirts or twinsets. For the weekends, dark jeans and black tops. Not because I wanted to dress like that every day, but because I didn't want the plus size alternatives -- pink pants with blue stripes, beige suits with sequined appliques, purple flowered dresses with purple polyester panties...

So, now that I can fit into misses' sizes (sometimes), I can't even bear to go back to the "women's" sections. It's too sad. It's like a former prisoner going back to see his jail. Why would he?

Plus-size retailers: Please make better clothes. Look at Old Navy -- they make the same clothes in all sizes. Granted, they're cheesy clothes that fall apart at the drop of a price tag, but they're equally cheesy for all sizes. Come on, y'all. Fat chicks want normal clothes, too.

(Everything I say about fatness has been said before, I know. I think Wendy at Pound already said this a long time ago, about how all the plus size clothes have weird sequined appliques and stuff. Hey, look, even better -- she said something a long time ago about how the media hates Torrid because if Torrid tells white teenaged girls it's okay to be fat, then fewer white teenaged girls will be available for mainstream porn. Hell yes, Wendy! I just remembered reason 37 why I love you, all the way back since before 2005.)

So, um... yeah. As my weight wanes, my bad clotheshorse habit threatens to return. See you at Ross Dress for Less, where I'm tunneling like a mole through the aisles.

(What is a clotheshorse, by the way? Does anyone know what that actually means?)

I hope no one was put off by that last topic.

I mean, I hope no one Googles my name and then reads stuff about my diet or my feelings about plus-sized clothing, and then decides not to give me a job, or not to give me a writing award, or not to look for me on Match.com, or not to be my cyber-friend anymore, or not to say hi to me on the elevator, or to mention me in an article about someone else's blog and call me a "whiny weight loss blogger."

Tomorrow or the next day, I'll tell y'all a story about real life, okay? I have this story that I've been reading around town, about a real person, and people who have heard it keep asking me why I don't publish the story or put it on my blog or print it out on fliers and circulate it via telephone poles. So... tomorrow. Or the next day, at the latest. I will tell y'all the story, and hopefully you'll like it. Prepare to qualify.

A Dangerous Obsession

A while back, I was talking to a professional-type person about stress and ways of coping with stress.

"I've been kind of stressed-out lately," I told her, "and I get irrationally worried about things... and so I've been coping with it by thinking about Christmas."

"Christmas?" she said.

"Yeah," I said. "Sometimes, when I get super stressed out by the whole single-mom-trying-to-support-three-kids thing, I let myself get obsessed with Christmas -- you know, what gifts I'm gonna give, what food I'm gonna cook -- instead of, you know, drinking or doing drugs or driving my car off a cliff. It's kind of weird, I know, but it really helps me to calm down."

She said, "Obsessing about Christmas is a waste of time. Have you considered Wellbutrin?"

It kind of hurt my feelings when she said that, so I left her office and didn't go back. Instead, I went to the library and checked out 101 Things to Make for Christmas and A Southern Living Christmas and Christmas with Better Homes and Gardens. I even tried something new and checked out a Thanksgiving cookbook.

And now I feel great. Now I feel just awesome, and it didn't cost me a copayment or prescription.

You know the part of Charlie Brown's Christmas special where the kids wave their hands all over the sad little tree and it turns awesome? Well, the tree is me. You know the part where Charlie Brown pays Lucy five cents to give him psychological advice, and then he leaves her booth feeling worse than before? That is not me. I am not Charlie Brown. See, Charlie Brown is a cynic. I, on the other hand, am a consumer. Get it? Charlie Brown is just reading the wrong craft books, and shopping at the wrong stores.

Okay. Just a little pin prick.

That's all. I just wanted to warm up my frozen fingers with some fast stream-of-conscious typing. Because, you know, Houston is the most air-conditioned city in the world, and therefore it's August and I'm freezing my face off. I'm wearing hose and a sweater and a wool skirt, because the AC is killing me in this town.

I told my boyfriend, "Oh, no, I accidentally dressed like an anime person today." And he goes, "You mean the sexy school girl?" And I go, "No, the frumpy maid who gets tentacle raped by her boss or whatever." And he nodded sympathetically. "I still love you," he said. "Shut up," I told him. "Stop your lying."

For lunch, we went to our favorite pho place, where I watched two Asian girls in grey pantsuits force a skirted Caucasian girl to eat a heaping spoonful of grass jelly, red beans, and packed snow. (Not really snow, but it looked like it.) And my Asian boyfriend was like, "I don't even eat that stuff," and I was like, "I know." And the Caucasian chick looked nervous as hell, taping her stiletto heel crazily under the table. I thought maybe her boyfriend was Asian, and she was having lunch with his sisters to be nice, and they were being subtly, psychologically cruel to her. Or maybe they were her bosses, even though they were all the same age. Because this Caucasian chick obviously knew her way around the chopsticks and the noodles -- she was slurping her food with the best of them -- but she was still nervous as hell. Maybe it was a gang initiation.

The sub-titles will no longer relate to the content under them. I have decided.

Really, I'm just bored. I want to be back home again, at night, signing more school papers for my kids and hearing that their second day of school went well, even better than the first. I want them to be happy and prosperous. I want us to make Christmas crafts, like a family that's happier than the ones on TV. They want me to read them a book at night. They said the last Harry Potter would be fine, even though they barely remember what happened in any of the previous. "What happened in the last one?" I quizzed. "Uh-h-h-h..." said my youngest. "Dumbledore died," said my oldest, now fifteen and six foot two. (Oops, spoiler, sorry.)

"Okay," I said. "Tonight, we read."

We got a new cat during the summer, and her name is Starbuck, (and please don't email me nagging stuff about pet ownership), and she's kind of tripping out right now. "You never told me you had three kids," she said, when they got home from the summer at their dad's. "I had them for you," I told her. "Now you can get them to pet you, instead of always bugging me." In response, she shed a hundred cat hairs on my pillow case, then slowly walked away, under the bed, to wait for me to sleep, and then to wake me up at 4 AM with noisy cat toys.

We got her from the county shelter. Don't go there unless you want to go home with 3 or 5 new pets. It'll make you sad, seeing all the pets that are waiting there for no one. I put some pictures on my Flickr page, but you can hardly understand them because my camera phone was in a bad mood that day. It made my cat all blurry. But that's okay, really, because I want to respect her privacy. She's not really recognizable in the photo, and Starbuck is her psuedonym. (Her real name is "the cat.") We bought her a water fountain for cats. She only likes it sometimes.

The Carousel of Other People and Their Hormones

My cube-mate has quit her job, and she'll be replaced by the most beautiful woman in our company. Which is fine with me, because the most beautiful woman in our company is also very nice. But it's funny... some of our men are pre-swarming. They're coming by, all like, "So, Gwen, how've you been? Heard you're getting a new neighbor, huh? Yeah, so, um... do you have any sprocket reports or widgets I can lend a hand with, today and every day from now on? Here at your desk?"

And I feel like telling them, "You know, it's okay if you want to use me as your excuse to be near Beautiful Chick. But don't start doing it until she gets here, okay? Just leave me in peace til then -- it won't hurt my feelings."

Other, other people are having the other kind of feelings - not the attracted, but the repulsing. Over at his job, my boyfriend has fallen prey to a Bitter Old Woman. You know -- the kind who is miserable and self-denying, and therefore has nothing better to do than to hate on happy people. The kind who stays at her desk on her lunch hour and monitors how many minutes everyone else spends at lunch with their friends. The kind who has no one to talk to, and so makes careful note of others' personal conversations. The kind who, instead of trying to elevate herself from her own misery, spends every minute of her work day working to drag others down, down, down to her miserable level.

So I sympathize with him. I know that type very well.

I don't care if you've got ten babies.

See how I quoted that song above? "I don't care if you've got ten babies, you can work the stick in my Mercedes"?

I don't have anything to say about babies or cars. That's just a lyric that runs through my mind at random moments.

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12:16 PM #
(25) comments

Monday, May 21, 2007

Dead Bird O Rama

Lately there are more and more dead birds on the plaza around our office building. Last time I walked through the glass-encased walkway, there were three. A couple of weeks ago there was one wedged into one of the benches where the smokers hang out. They usually end up in weird positions. Upside-down and twisted, feathers still bright. It makes me sad. I went online to see if there was something strange going on. But no... a single skyscraper causes the deaths of 200 birds per day, I read.

Bad Timing

The other day I was in my mini-van listening to the radio, and a local news station's daily terror-mongering teaser was on. Every day they tell us something new and horrible that we have to tune in at 5 PM to get the details on.

I live in Houston, Texas. As some of you know, a lot of Hurricane Katrina evacuees moved here a couple of years ago. As I mentioned at the time, some Houston residents were bitter about that. So, of course, the local media jumped on that, and they've been jumping on it ever since.

So I'm listening to the radio the other day, and the local news station runs this promo that can be paraphrased like so:
[Ominous music.] Your tax dollars... WASTED. Two years ago, Houston took in New Orlean's poorest citizens when they needed help. Some say they've repaid us with crime, violence, and LEECHING THE SYSTEM. Last week Hurricane Katrina victims left FEMA trailers in shambles. Furniture was stolen and rooms were FILLED WITH HUMAN WASTE. Tonight! On Watchdog TerrorAlert HateMonger News!

I heard all that and thought, "Man, that's kind of cold."

Then, immediately after, kooky, carefree Zydeco music flows from my stereo. It's another commercial, in which a Cajun-esque voice invites me to come on down to New Orleans and enjoy the (newly restored) atmosphere for which it's famous.

Hmm. I bet that if the people who paid for that ad heard the one that immediately preceded it, they wished for a refund.

Meanwhile, they prevailing belief among my set is that all the rich people in New Orleans are probably happy that all their poor people are gone now. They're gone, and they can't afford to come back.

I don't regret that Houston spent money on and made space for the evacuees that we took in. It was the right thing to do, and I'm proud that my hometown did it. However, I think rich people from New Orleans should consider visitng us and spending some tourism money here, instead of the other way around.

Or, you know--someone should plan the commercials better, at the very least.

Big, Wrinkled, Teenaged Girls

I hate it when supposed adults act like immature children. Especially when those adults are older than me. It makes me uncomfortable, and makes me embarrassed for them. Especially when their immature behavior takes place in a professional setting.

No specific story behind this--just a general weariness.

Big, Mean, Passive-Aggressive Public Service Announcement (Because, Apparently, That's the Kind of Person I Am)

If you've semi-recently stopped being my friend (maybe because I told you I didn't want to hang out with you anymore), then please, please, please don't email me. Don't leave me voicemails, and don't write about me on your blog. Or, if you do choose to write about me on your blog, don't take my reading it as a sign that I "can't let go," or that I want to have contact with you. I'm a human being. It's human nature to be unable to resist reading blogs about oneself. Especially when the entries are completely deluded and disjointed from reality. You may check your referrer logs and see that I've been reading, yes. But it doesn't mean I'm obsessed with you. It mostly means that I'm trying to gauge how psycho you're likely to become.

I know that posting this here is passive-aggressive. Why post this for everyone to see and wonder about, instead of just telling the offender directly?

Because I don't want to talk to her. Because I know she's dying for me to talk to her. Hence the constant crazy blog entries, then contradictory, fake-friendly phone calls and emails. I've been through this before and know the routine. She will say or do whatever she can to make me speak to her, and then she'll twist whatever I say into something bizarre that she wants to believe. Actually, in fact, I'm pretty sure that if the psycho is reading this right now, she doesn't even think it's about her. That's how deluded she is.

So let me start again. New open letter: If you are the friend or spouse of someone who stopped being my friend, but who won't stop talking about me, then please, please exert all your influence to keep her from contacting me anymore. Take everything she's told you about me for the last five months, and apply your common sense to it. When she tells you that I used to like her very much, but something mysterious made me stop liking her, know that it was her creepy behavior. When she tells you that I'm a horrible, passive-aggressive, cowardly person because I "made lame excuses" for not wanting to hang out with her anymore, know that I tried to get away from her as politely as I could, with as few of her angry outbursts and veiled suicide threats as possible. When she tells you that I'm obviously disturbed, and that I "just can't let go," go back and read her blog entries about me from the last five months. And then check her cell phone records to see how often she's called me since she first told everyone I was a crazy, mean bitch... even though I never call her. And then check her email and see that she emailed me just the other day, as if we were friends. As if she hadn't spent the last five months publicly disparaging me and thanking God that she's on antidepressants that help her cope with my evil, hateful behavior.

I've been waiting for this to be over for five freaking months now. That's longer than our friendship lasted. How long do I have to wait?

Please, I'm begging you--tell her to leave me alone. If you can't make her stop doing this--to me and probably to every friend she's ever had--and if you can't make her go to counseling, then please, at least make her stop emailing me. Whatever else you may think I deserve, I don't deserve this. I don't like constantly wondering, in the back of my mind, what she's going to do next. I don't like being unable to go places where she lives/works/eats without worrying at least a little that she'll turn up and do something strange.

All I want is to be left alone. In exchange, I will continue not to tell mutual associates what your friend/spouse has been doing, and how effing crazy she is. Thank you.

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5:58 AM #
(13) comments

Friday, May 18, 2007

Ghost Issues

I.

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."

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6:04 AM #
(7) comments

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

I've been sparing you.

Haven't posted in a while because I'm in a state of drudgery, and boring, cyclical drudgery, at that. All stuff you've heard before, even down to the fact that I didn't get the last child-support check owed me, and therefore am broke. Same old shit. Same shit, different day.

Watching all that Battlestar Galactica lately has got me thinking: What do you have to look forward to? Obviously, if you're indefinitely stuck on a battleship because robots took over your planet, you're desperate to find things to look forward to. Right? But what about for us peeps on Earth, waiting as we are for Edward James Olmos and his crew to find us? What do we have to look forward to?

I've been asking my friends, and it's interesting to hear their answers. Especially the chronological range. (I think that's the big word I mean.) Some people are looking forward to things that will take place three months from now, like parties and TV shows. Some people are looking forward to more misty future events, like what they'll do when they retire.

Alone at night, before I slept, I tried to count five things I was looking forward to. I counted two that had to do with my next books' release, in Spring 2008, and one that wasn't as much a thing as it was a hope. ("Uh... selling another book? If I do?") And then I told myself that I can always look forward to creating more stuff, books or whatever else, whether I end up selling them or not. And then I fell asleep, I think.

How much of what you look forward to is stuff you can control, and how much is controlled by someone else? I was rereading The House on Mango Street the other day, and identified strongly with the narrator's disgust at her parents looking forward to winning the lottery. And yet, at the same time, thoughts of lottery winning often buoy me up throughout the work day, work week, work year.

I think I can only look forward to things I'll control, to things I plan to do... and then realize my hopes by getting off my ass and doing them. But sometimes I get tired. And sometimes, I run out of money. Also, no matter how determined I get, I can't plan the future very far in advance. (I've never been good at chess, either.)

Next weekend, barring unforeseen bullshit, I'll go to the beach, maybe.

My horoscope keeps saying annoying crap like, "Although it bothers you not to be in control and not to be accomplishing anything, you should take this time to take stock of your strengths and weaknesses. Heal old wounds. Take some time to relax."

I'm going to stop reading it. From now on, I'm only going to read superstitious crap that fills me with optimism.

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10:10 AM #
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Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Questions on my Mind Lately

1. Why would a teacher tolerate bullying in his classroom?

2. If a divorced mother is "bat-shit insane," how does that justify a divorced father verbally abusing his own child?

3. Is it just my imagination, or do some men see children only as extensions of their own mothers, and not as human beings in their own right?

You know what I mean? We all know about men who obviously love their current wives' children, but act like their former wives' children don't exist. We all know about men who refuse to pay child support because they see it as funding their ex-wives' leisure. We've seen news stories in which men kill not only their ex-lovers, but also those lovers' children. And we've all seen nature shows on PBS in which animals purposely kill the children of other animals.

So what's up with that? Are some men closer to the animal world, in all its savage nobility, than the rest of us? Or are these just the same old human men we've seen forever, who were trained by other men to believe that women and children are less than human?

4. If I'm such a good person, why am I not teaching? So many messed-up human beings are teaching by default. I claim to actually care about children, so why don't I put my money where my mouth is?

5. If I go to my suburb's Chick-Fil-A on a Friday night, and I see blond jocks and cheerleaders make fun of the high-school students working the counter, what should I do? Should I say really loudly to my boyfriend, "What kind of losers spend their Friday nights making fun of people who have jobs?" Or does that only exacerbate the situation--make me the same kind of bully I despise?

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6:24 AM #
(14) comments

Friday, March 23, 2007

Tired, Cranky

I wrote a long post for you guys earlier, then emailed it to myself for later revision, and then it disappeared. Dammit.

So, instead of posting what I wrote, I will give you guys some free advice. Ready? Here it is:

Never take advice from someone less successful than you.

Right? Am I right? You like that, huh?

When I want money advice, I go to a Republican. Why? Because Republicans love money, and they'll do anything to get and retain it. And they all have more money than me, and they all pay less on their taxes. So I ask them. "Teach me," I say. And, sure, some of their advice is unpalatable to me, and so I don't follow it. But it makes more sense to take their advice than to take that of poor, struggling liberals who work non-profit jobs. And, the same thing goes for the other way around. Why would I ask conservatives for sex advice, when they hate for people to have sex? For that, the struggling liberals are a better source of knowledge. Ha, ha, just kidding. No, I'm not.

When I want relationship advice, I ask people who are in successful relationships. You know? No, seriously... I'm saying, "Do you know any?" Just kidding. Ha, ha.

So finally: When I want career advice, I ask someone who's in my field, who's done more in that field than I have so far. Of course. Hello - why would I ask someone with less experience than me?

Meanwhile, contrary to the logic of everything I've just said, don't you find that people who are less successfull than you are always the ones trying to give you advice?

Why do they do that? I don't know. I can only guess. Maybe they're in denial about how unsuccessful they are. Maybe they're just trying to drag you down. Maybe they want you to learn from their mistakes, now that it's too late for them to do that for themselves.

Either way: When less successful people try to give you advice, don't take it. Just ignore it. You can smile and say, "Okay, thanks," but then leave it at that, you know? And don't feel bad about ignoring their advice, either.

Screw them. Life is too short, and you have a long way to go.

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8:31 PM #
(9) comments

Friday, March 02, 2007

Turning Down the Direct Hit

Someone just asked you out. You know why? Because you're sexy, dammit. Aren't you flattered? Of course you are. And yet, unfortunately, your feelings for the other person are not mutual. You don't want to go out with him/her. So, what next?

You tell him or her the truth.

Ouch, right? Painful for the other person, awkward for you. It's so awkward, I can totally see how you'd want to avoid the whole conversation altogether. I know, because I've been there, and I've given all the wrong answers. And now I know why they're wrong:

Don't lie.
Do not lie. Don't say, "Uh, not this weekend, but maybe some other time." You might think that doing that is a nice way to let the other person down, or to hint that you're not interested. But it isn't. It only gives him or her a reason to try again later. Yes, you can reason that, after you've turned the person down three times in a row, he or she will get the hint. But then, you've wasted that person's time, and gotten his or her hopes up for nothing. Why? This person doesn't deserve to be misled just because he or she thought you were sexy. So don't do it.

Don't give him or her the wrong phone number.
I know it's easy to reason that this is a nice method, since it delays the asker's embarrassment until he or she is alone. But it's not nice. It's mean, because it gives the other person even more hope before letting them down. Not only that, but it inconveniences the person whose number you actually gave. (You know--your number with the last two digits transposed. Yeah. The old woman who has that number is tired of getting calls from people who wanted to take you to the movies. She's trying to watch House. Quit bothering her.)

Don't be an asshole.
Don't say, "As if!" Don't say, "Oh, hell no!" Don't say anything rude. Why would you do that? What kind of evil jerk are you? I don't care if the person who asked you out is ugly, smelly, stupid, and has alien genitalia that's incompatible with yours. It still took that person a lot of guts to ask you out, and you need to respect the polite show of interest.

Obviously, if you are that kind of evil jerk, you aren't reading a blog post about how to be polite. So I won't go on and on about how being rude exposes you as someone with low self esteem. I'll just end this paragraph by reminding everyone to treat others as you'd like to be treated.

Here are suggestions for things you can say.
Memorize them if you need to, because I know that you're very sexy and therefore someone is bound to ask you out any moment now.

"No, thank you. I'm flattered, but I never really thought of you in that way."

"Oh, that's so sweet... but no, thanks. I couldn't."

"I'm gonna have to say no. But I would like to stay friends, if that's okay."

"Thank you for asking, but I'm seeing someone else right now."
(If the asker is in your social circle, you shouldn't say this unless it's true. Otherwise, it jacks up future opportunities for you to hook up with mutual friends.)

Here's one my friend Letty told me, for when the asker is being a little ambiguous, as if he/she might actually want your number for networking or to sell you Pampered Chef products or something:
"Why don't you give me your number instead, and I'll call you when I have time."
Then, you don't call. Or, hey--call when you want a Pampered Chef baking stone, and pretend you never realized the interest was romantic. Who could turn down the opportunity to make a sale, platonic or not?

"Dude, I would totally have sex with you right now, on this table, but my husband/wife/cult leader would kill me."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking to date anyone right now. Hey, have you met my friend Samantha?"

The Corollary:
How to Respond When Someone Turns Down Your Direct Hit

You just hit on a sexy person, and he or she turned you down. They did it politely, but ouch, that shit hurt. So embarrassing. So disappointing. No one likes to get rejected. It sucks.

I know, because the last time I told someone that I liked him and he told me the feelings weren't mutual, it burned like the heat of a thousand sucks. But at least he told me politely, and for that I'll always be glad.

So. What do you do? You stand there, go "Gulp!" real loud in your throat, and accept the rejection as graciously as you can. Here is what you can say:

"Okay. Well, just thought I'd check and see. Let me know if you change your mind," or
"Okay. Well, you can't blame a guy for trying, can you? [wink]" or
"All right. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me," or
"Okay, well, I hope we can still be friends," or
"Aw, man. That was embarrrassing. I appreciate your honesty, though. Later."

Do NOT say:
"What? Why not??" or
"But... but... I thought..." or
"I think you're making a big mistake, because..." or
"Well, then you've been leading me on all this time," or
anything with bad words in it.

Do not argue with the person. He or she knows better than you whether or not he/she wants to date you.
Do not ask for explanations. You can't expect someone to answer that truthfully, anyway. "Because you're creepy. Because you're whiny. Because I'm too materialistic to date someone who makes as little money as you do. Because I'm holding out for someone I'm too scared to ask out."
See how horrible that sounds? You don't want to hear that, do you?"

Do not get angry.
It's okay to feel angry (or hurt, or disappointed), deep inside your mind, alone in your room at night, but you can't act on that feeling, because it's inappropriate. Because--face it--no one owes you a freaking date.

See, the reason so many people don't turn down dates honestly and politely is because either a) they never learned how, or b) the last time they did, someone freaked out and responded with anger, accusations, or incessant demands for a satisfactory reason. Or stalking. Or crying. You know--general awkwardness.

Be as gracious as you can. That way, you leave a good impression. And that leads to the possibility of your target changing his or her mind, or at least hooking you up with his/her friends.

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4:43 PM #
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Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Passive Hits

One of the things I've been working on, as far as self-improvement goes, is passive aggressiveness. I'm trying to eradicate all traces of it from my life.

When I was younger, I used to think that the best (safest) way to hit on someone was to do it ambiguously. That way, if they liked you back, they would say so (hopefully). And, if they didn't like you back and said so, you could always deny your interest in the first place.

Now that I'm older and have lived through more things, I've done a complete 180 emotional reversal on this issue. I hate it when people hit on me ambiguously, or express their romantic interest passively. And I see now how inconsiderate that sort of behavior is. Here are all my reasons why:

1. The other person knows that you like her/him, and yet you are giving her/him no opportunity to turn you down.

For example, you think you're clever when you say things like, "So, Cillian Murphy, would you ever date a single mom of three who likes to write? Hee, hee."

Meanwhile, Cillian Murphy is thinking, "I don't want to date you, Gwen." And yet he can't say it, because you didn't ask that question, and he is too well mannered to answer the question you didn't ask.

2. It's creepy.

Like I said, the other person already senses that you like him/her, and yet you never say anything outright, so he/she never says anything outright, and the situation drags on and on and on. And you're content to let it drag, because, that way, you can still fool yourself into believing that your unrequited feelings are secretly mutual. But, meanwhile, the other person is wondering more and more what the hell is wrong with you, and why you can't take a freaking hint.

3. It's the technique that perverts use.

You know how perverts on the subway sneak up next to you, slowly ooze into a fondle or squeeze, and then, if you face them, they say, "Excuse me," as if their touching your ass was an accident?

Don't do that to people. Not physically, and not emotionally. Don't ask for a phone number on false pretenses, then call that person late at night, when you're drunk enough to have the guts. Don't pull the "Oops, I kissed you because I was drunk" maneuver. Don't try the old "I rubbed up against you because I'm half asleep" routine. It fills your victim with complete, utter disgust.

4. It's insulting.

If you're pretending to be someone's friend for months or years on end, solely because you're secretly living for the possibility that that person will "wake up" one day and decide to sleep with you... Then you aren't a very good friend. You aren't a friend at all. You're dishonest and manipulative, and when the other person realizes that, you will totally blow any chance you might have had to score.

5. Most important reason: Confidence is sexy.

It's way, way sexier. So is honesty, even when it's difficult to display. Hasn't it ever happened to you that someone walks up and flat-out asks you on a date, or says, "I find you really attractive"? And, even if you never gave that person a second look before, don't you feel flattered? And, as long as the person is candid-but-not-creepy, aren't you impressed by his/her confidence? If you're a normal person, you are, right? (I'm talking to normal people and not jerks, who aren't worth asking out, anyway.)

Just be honest. Just come out and ask. I could have a million reasons for turning you down. It might be what you're afraid of hearing. I.e., "No. You disgust me. How dare you suggest such a thing."

But, since I'm not a jerk, it would sound more like, "I'm flattered, but no, thank you." And then you'd know for sure, and you could move on with your life.

Or, who knows? The answer could be "Yes. Hell yes!" Or, it could be, "You know, I never thought about you in that way. But now that you've flattered and impressed me, I might." Or, it could be, "I'm not dating right now, but I'll certainly keep you in mind for when I am." Or, it could be, "No thanks, because I have a boyfriend, but how about I introduce you to my friend Samantha?"

But you will never know until you ask. And, if you creep me out instead of just asking, the answer will never be yes.

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7:15 PM #
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Monday, November 20, 2006

Phases

Maybe this is only a societally conditioned woman thing, but: You know how you'll go through little phases throughout the year? Like, there's the gathering phase, where you feel like buying a bunch of stuff, and then the nesting phase, in which you feel like fixing up your house, and then the inspiration phase, when you feel like tearing a bunch of pictures out of magazines or right-clicking a bunch of images online? And then I guess there's a creative phase, when you make stuff, and a sort of purging phase, when you give stuff to the Goodwill or sell it on eBay. And maybe there's an organizing phase, too.

Right now I'm not in any of those phases. And it feels pretty good. Except that I think this is just the eye before the storm that is Christmas, and I'll have to go through several phases, in rapid succession, very soon.

Christmas is special. It has its own phases.

The Generosity Phase - you want to buy tons of stuff for everyone you've ever liked or appreciated.

The Socially Conscious Miser Phase - you want to stop buying things and only give people gifts of your time or whatever.

The PTSD Phase - you remember sad/mad/bad Christmasses past and cower on your couch in several minor panic attacks.

The Weather Phase - you live in a semi-tropical region and feel bittersweet that there's no snow. (Or else you have a snowball fight and wallow in nostalgia. Woo hoo for you.)

The Angst Phase - nothing you picked out for gifts is good enough.

The Greed Phase - you make big lists, mentally or on paper, of things you want, whether you give the lists to anyone or not. Sometimes you flip out and buy yourself a bunch of expensive luxuries, reasoning that no one's going to get you what you really want, anyway, so you might as well buy yourself a gift or three.

The Starch Phase - you want to eat a bunch of orange and brown foods.

The Decorating Phase - you want to put lights and garlands and crap all over your house.

The Over It Phase - you want to fly away to another country and come back in the middle of January.

It's very sunny and warm here lately, in Houston, so, like I said, I'm resting myself until Christmas draws nearer. If it were a little colder, I'd probably be panicking about gifts right about now.

Oh, and I don't get my kids for Christmas this year - their dad gets them. So, really, I kind of feel like I have nothing to be excited about. No... really, it just means a whole other set of phases to go through, some involving loneliness and alcohol, some involving exhilarating freedom and glee.

What are your phases? Which one are you in right now? Why? Or did I just make all this up?

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10:40 AM #
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Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Scene-Setting

Today I accidentally dressed like Alice in Wonderland. I put on a pleated skirt to minimize ironing time, then added tights to keep from having to shave my legs, then the flat Mary Janes that that hurt my corn the least this week, and oops. Cakes saying "Eat me" have appeared all round my head.

In the nearby halls, someone has posted childen's variations on a local company's logo. A bevy of coloring-contest entries, I mean. There are three that are very clearly better than all the rest. On closer inspection, you see that those three were done by three children, all of whom belong to the same person. You go, unisexly-named person I've never met! Raise those artists!

People, People, People

So, like every single other time, I got thwarted in my lunch-time mission to be alone.

I no longer believe that my fellow citizens are doing this to me on purpose (mostly I don't), but something's going on. Long-time readers remember that I can no longer read and eat Jack in the Box tacos in my car, in a nearby normally-deserted parking lot, without party-poopers feeling the need to park right next to me.

So, instead of whining about that more than once, I began parking in a different spot, in such a way that makes it impossible for the lonely space invaders to park alongside.

Well, no. No, no, no. It's not going to work out that way (me being alone, with privacy) because the strangers will just drive in circles near me, peering through their windows. ("What in the heck is that girl doing? Is she eating Jack in the Box tacos and reading a book? Weird!") Or, like today, they will just park illegally, blocking the parking-lot entrance adjacent to my car. Why? I don't know. I hope the person who did that today got immense satisfaction out of it, though.

So then, in the parking garage, I unintentionally inhaled the cologne/deoderant combo of the gentleman twenty steps ahead and wondered if I'm becoming a misanthrope. And, if so, if it's caused by hormones.

The fragrant gentleman and his friend began a disjointed conversation that caused them to slow down. ("So what are you..." "What [turns face into cell phone]?") They slowed down exactly long enough for me to reach them, then sped up to exactly the pace I was walking, so that we were all three walking abreast, as if we knew each other, and it became clear that some kind of rearranging would become imminent at the parking garage door.

So I walked very fast and got away. And I tried not to be a misanthrope about it. And I almost ran into another guy near the elevators. And we both paused at the same time to be polite and let the other go ahead. And he gestured for me to go. And I looked at his face and it looked like a nice face. And the spell was broken and I was glad.

In a huge, airy hall, me and several men walked along behind two women, one of whom had on a belt too tight for her tight low-rise pants. The two women talked loudly. Me and the men fell into silence behind them, awed by the belt and pants, I think. Something fell from the side of the belt-pants women. It hit the floor with a "blap!" She didn't notice, but all the rest of us looked down at it. I felt us all wonder if we should pick it up for her, or at least maybe say, "Excuse me."

The thing she dropped was a condiment packet. Psychically, I felt us all decide not to bring it to anyone's attention.

As I stepped over the condiment packet, I could not resist noticing that it said "Sweet Relish."

For some reason, this embarrassed me so much that I started to giggle. I couldn't stop. Then, twenty steps later, I saw that Pants/Belt had lunch items in her hands. I felt bad, then, imagining her at her desk, wondering what the hell happened to the sweet relish she'd planned to employ.

Cakes Saying "Eat Me"

I'm not even going to talk about what the endocrinologist said yesterday, for fear that it will upset me to dwell on the fact that his diagnosis will most likely parallel that of my gynecologist last year. (In short, I've paid hundreds of dollars for him to very carefully reach the same conclusion, and explain it more fully, but offer no more underlying reason than she did, and treat it with pills that have all the same ingredients as the Pill she gave me, but without any contraceptive effect.) (Maybe. Won't know for sure until after Friday's test.)

But... I'm taking a special, multi-needle test on Friday morning. In the meantime, my endocrinologist explicitly instructs me to eat more carbs. "CARB LOADING," he writes across the paper that tells me what to do.

And so I've thought of a new diet plan, which is "Have your doctor tell you to eat stuff that makes you fat." Because, now that he's told me to do that, I don't want to. I don't feel like eating any carbs at all, now.

And yet, dutifully, I eat a Halloween mini candy bar once or twice per hour. And I think doing that is putting me in a bad mood. Unless I'm already in a bad mood because I'm about to start my period - my third period of the month. No, wait, it's November. First one of the new month, then. But anyway. Maybe that's why I hate people, too. But, then again, conversely, what if that is why people like me? What if my smell - a heady combination of candy, testosterone, and impending blood - is what's making people park, walk, and drop condiments next to me?

I don't know. What do you think? Do you think I should maybe start a new book and become an endocrinologist? See about getting a radio show? Get a hysterectomy? Stop reading so much Kazuo Ishiguro?

I don't know now, I don't know. Everybody, stand back please. Just take twenty steps in the other direction and let me love you again.

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1:14 PM #
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Friday, September 01, 2006

Sad Monkeys

I'm going to tell you what Rose and I talked about more than a week ago. Look:

Monkeys want cell phones but get rebuffed.

This is a sad story. Monkeys live at the zoo. They see humans using cell phones. The monkeys, then, want cell phones of their own.

Give the monkeys cell phones!

But no. Instead, the keepers "train" the monkeys not to want cell phones anymore. They do this by giving them old, broken cell phones coated with "sticky substances" that the monkeys "don't like." The monkeys learn to stay the hell away from the phones after that.

Man, that's cold-blooded. Give the monkeys cell phones. They want them. They don't need them, but neither does anyone else, right? The keepers say the monkeys are supposed to live "naturally," but how natural is it to live in a zoo?

I say, give the monkeys cell phones and pre-program each phone with the numbers and photographs of the other monkeys. Give them ring tones. Let them upgrade to Razors (and Rzzrs and Crzzrs) for rebatable bananas.

It's not like you're giving them guns, or heroin, or carb-laden treats.

Let the monkeys have cell phones. They want them.

Paid for by the woman whose kids have sticky cell phones and broken Game Boys all over their cages.

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8:14 AM #
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Thursday, July 27, 2006

Feelings

I miss my kids a lot. I'm ready for them to come home from their summer visitation with their dad. I miss my kids so much, it makes my uterus hurt. (Either that or it's just normal periodical cramping.) (But still.)

I'm in Flexible Mode. That means I'm taking a break from getting pissed off when other people mess up my plans. See, normally, I have tons of plans and lists and timelines. I have to, or else nothing in my life would get done. Now, however, I'm at the mercy of contractors, movers, utility companies, and the weather. If I let myself, I could break down and cry in frustration over the sheer number of tentative plans that have been ruined so far this week. But I'm not letting myself. Because I'm in Flexible Mode, and that means that I constantly tell myself that all plans made are highly likely to change.

I can't wait until everything gets done and I can exit Flexible Mode, and get back into Highly Controlled Mode, and therefore back into normal life.

I think Flexible Mode makes me uncomfortable because it reminds me of being a child, or a housewife. I don't want to feel like that. I've been a Head of Household for six years now, and I will be for the rest of my life.

Lately, I have no Internet access at home. As you can imagine, it's frustrating. I miss my World of Warcraft character, Xora. I wonder how she's doing out there in that other world. Sometimes, when one of my newest plans gets changed (like when I found out yesterday that no one in Houston can move my stuff until Sunday), I think about Xora flying over the ocean on her rented hippogriff. And I wish I was her for a moment. But I can't be. Because I have no Internet connection at home. And no cable, either. And no TV.

I kind of wish I had a cat. Sometimes I hate to be alone at night. But, then again, sometimes I like it.

I can't wait for my kids to come home and see the new house. I miss those brats. I can't wait for them to be here with me, riding in the car, arguing and calling each other names while we run around town. Unpacking. Cleaning. Making Jell-O. Having fun. Being a family.

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8:28 AM #
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Wednesday, July 19, 2006

How to Be Happy

Some people think you can be happy if you take anti-depressants. Some people think you can be happy if you read enough of the right books about how to do it. Some people think it's impossible to be happy because the world is a really crappy place.

I think it's possible to be happy, but only if you're honest with yourself about what you want. I've been thinking about it for a long time, and here's what I've decided it would take for me to be happy for more than 50% of the time.

1. If I had a little fur stole to wear. It doesn't have to be authentic, but it should be white, and very furry. And warm. And I should be able to wear it whenever I feel like it, whether I'm at work or in the mall or on the beach, without people commenting on its possible inappropriateness. Also, it might be nice if I could sometimes wear long gloves or some kind of animal ears with my stole.

2. If I could eat a lot of donuts without getting fat. I never eat donuts, even when they have really nice ones in the break room for free... and I'm still fat, anyway. But I can't ever eat donuts, or else I'll get even fatter, really fast. It would be nice if, for every donut I ate, I would lose one quarter of a pound, net. I think about that a lot, and I've decided that a quarter of a pound is the exact amount of weight I'd need to lose per donut in order to eat as many donuts as I want, but without losing so much weight that my skin gets loose. So... yeah. Donuts.

3. If I didn't have to work a day job.

4. Failing #3, if the music I play on my computer at my day job wouldn't cut out during my favorite songs.

Thank you. That's all. As you can see, it wouldn't take much.

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8:41 AM #
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Thursday, April 13, 2006

Idea

On the way to school and work, my oldest son and I were listening to a particularly heart-quickening CD. I told Josh that it would be fun if, when I got into the office today and bypassed greetings of "Smile! It's almost Friday!" I would take that CD out of my purse, put it into my computer, and turn the volume all the way up. Then, I would go stand by the light switch so I could flick it on and off, on and off, real quick, while dancing and screaming, "Ow!"

That would be awesome.

Secrets

1. The sandals I'm wearing have cracks all over the insteps.

2. I like to be mean to handsome men.

3. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick just so I could have a few hours alone. And catch up with our laundry.

The Number of Crazy People Who Have Confided Their Craziness to Me So Far in the Part Week:

is two. (Not counting my mom, who called and very quickly threw out a few crazy sentences from her halfway house's laundry room's pay phone before her calling card ran out of time and we had to bellow "I love you" and hang up.) This week's crazy confessions were below average as far as interesting-ness goes. I usually average one crazy confession per week, though, so maybe if I get two in a week, they're supposed to be less interesting.

I keep wanting to tell y'all about how I'm a magnet for crazy people, or for normal people's crazy confessions. If I'm in a room with twenty other people plus one crazy person, that crazy person will usually zero in on me and immediately whisper a confession in my face. If a hitherto normal person I haven't seen in a while calls my phone, it's usually to confess something absolutely crazy. I think it's something about my face. It apparently says, "Hi. My mother is mentally ill, therefore I have a high tolerance for craziness. Please deposit your confessions here." I need to add, in fine print, "I reserve the right to remember your crazy confessions and reproduce them in fiction, non-fiction, and PowerPoint presentations."

Hypoglycemia

Every time I kick the sugar habit, I say, "I feel so energized and my mind is so much clearer, ever since I stopped eating sugar. You know what? I'm never gonna eat sugar again!!! Then I will write a million books and bead a million necklaces and sew a million fifties-style pastel tweed suits and my life will be awesome! AWESOME. Awe... some!!!!!"

Then, a few months after that, I'll eat a piece of white, refined, high-fructose-corn-syrup-y bread because there's literally nothing else around, and then the yeast and sugar demons will inhabit my intestines' soul and start crying for more, more, always more. And the downward spiral will do its thing, and I'll gain 25 pounds, and be sad for a year or two until I decide to quit sugar again.

Was that twelve steps? I lost count...

Whining Averted

So anyhow. I was gonna tell y'all that I had writer's block real bad, but now I seem to be over it, so I'm really happy and you've been spared the whining.

... for now, that is. Ha, ha, ha.

HA, HA, HA, HA!

Ahem. Okay. Goodbye.

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8:15 AM #
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Wednesday, March 15, 2006

You can't tell by looking at me, but

I'm going to change my life. The process has already begun.

When I was a teenager, I used to say that I wanted to do this or that... that I was planning to do this and that... but then I never did. The reasons why don't matter now. But people came to think of me as the person who talked a lot of smack about things she was never going to do. (Do you know people like that? Yes, you do.)

Since then, I've changed. I think everyone knows, now, that if I say I'm going to do something, you can count on that shit getting done, with 95% certainty, barring unforeseen circumstances outside my control (that I can't sway with prayers and voodoo ceremonies.)

Lately I've realized that the only thing that's been holding me back is me, and my manufactured phantoms. I have two or three head-voices remaining that say - not "You can't do it," but - "Why are you doing that if it's not going to make you any money? It's selfish to do things that won't make you money. That makes you a bad mom."

But I've decided not to listen to those voices, either, anymore. So... my life will change. In fact, it's already changing. And feeling that makes me happy.

Either that, or this is just the manic upswing of an as-yet-undiagnosed bipolar disorder.

But I don't think so. No, I think I've finally gotten on the right track to having a happy life. Watch and see, then copy me if it works out. And, PS, I am a good mom. Even if I never do get rich.

In semi-related news: I want to have a million web sites, like some of my friends do. But a million web sites take time. But still, I want them. So we'll see. If I can make the time, I will, and hopefully the results will be enjoyable for us all.

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1:56 PM #
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Thursday, February 23, 2006

Expressions of Love, Part One: When a Man Loves a Woman (and Her Scarf)

The other day

No... First I have to tell you something, so you understand this anecdote.

I get really freaked out when people stare at me. Probably because I'm a little insecure. Partially, I'm sure, because I grew up in a subculture where staring is considered not just rude, but an invitation to a fist fight. Maybe, partially, because I inherited part of my mom's extreme tendency in this regard. As I've mentioned before, she's paranoid schizophrenic. So, who knows, maybe hearing her say stuff like, "That man keeps staring at us. I think he wants to kill us!" affected my young psyche just a little, before she went to live somewhere else. Who knows?

The point is, I dislike it when strangers stare. A lot. But I've been trying to get over it. My boyfriend helps, with his good example, logical guidance, and willingness to be my boyfriend despite my flaws.

The other day he and I were at Bed Bath & Bourgeousie. I didn't want to be there in the first place, but there we were, and it was very cold for Houston that day (39 F), and I had on my warmest coat (black suede trench) and a scarf made of balls of brown rabbit fur that match my hair. (It was a gift. (A very warm gift.))

So we walk in and, right off the bat, these three baseball-cap-wearing-type men in their forties start with the looking. One of them in particular let his looking become a full-blown stare.

I said nothing, but I had to think up all the possible reasons he might be staring. Because I must do that. That is my nature. Here are the possible reasons I came up with:

1. Interracial relationship. People gotta stare. Some people have never seen or even imagined a Caucasian woman with an Asian man before.
2. He thought I was ugly.
3. He thought I was pretty.
4. He thought I looked like somebody he knew.
5. He thought I was overdressed for the weather. Some people can take the cold. Some people can't. He obviously could, but maybe he'd never before seen a person who couldn't.
6. Maybe...

I couldn't take it anymore. "That guy stared at me," I said to Tad.

"Probably because he thinks you're hot," said Tad.

"No. It wasn't like that."

"Probably the interracial thing."

"Maybe..."

We didn't find what we were looking for, so we turned to leave. The baseball cap men were still there.

"They're gonna stare at me again," I whispered. For some reason, it bugged me a lot. I'm okay now with old ladies and little kids staring, but something about getting stared at by three tall, smile-less men in baseball caps who have nothing better to do than stare at strangers at Bed Bath & Beyond? Unnerving. I glanced at them with my peripheral vision, ready to spin and yell, "What the hell you lookin' at, ese?" while pulling out my imaginary knife, if need be.

As we neared the gauntlet, Tad put his arm around me. The men were arranged so that we had to walk right through them.

As we walked through, Tad held up his left hand, like a bodyguard, and said loudly, "Nobody look at her. Nobody look at her, please!" And then of course they must have looked. Because I must've been a celebrity, in town for the All Star Game, right?

By the time we got to the parking lot, I was laughing my ass off. In the car, I laughed until I coughed, then realized: "I think he was staring at my scarf, actually. Trying to figure out if it was real fur."

Tad, who is a very good mimic, launched into an exact imitation of a Texas redneck. "Yeah. He was like, 'God DAMN. If that was my woman, I'd hunt enough to put a different dead animal around her neck every day.'"

I giggled. I wish you could have seen him, with that voice coming out of his mouth.

Tad went on. "Shit. I'd make that girl a deerskin bikini."

And from now on, when people stare, I'll imagine that's what they're thinking. Some people just want to show you love with dead animals.

And some people show you love by being silly in order to make you feel better. And if that, in turn, shows you how silly you've been, then it's okay, because it's done with love.

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2:59 PM #
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Monday, February 13, 2006

Road-Related

A good game to play when you're caught in traffic or just driving somewhere you always drive: First think of a number, like fifteen. Then find fifteen (or whatever number) things that you would like to photograph, if you had nothing better to do than go around town taking pictures. Today, on the way to pick up my kids from school, I mentally photographed palm trees, a fabulously old trailer than had been painted yellow then blue then red, the swanky font on an old liquor store sign, and a red reflector light embedded in a tree. It's a fun game because it reminds you that there's pretty and interesting stuff all around you.

A bad game to play when you're on the freeway at night and have been driving for seven hours straight is: throwing the finger at whoever just cut you off in his SUV. The bad thing about that game is that sometimes state troopers drive SUVS, and, at night, you can't tell it's a state trooper until after you've thrown the finger at him, and he turns on his flashers and pulls you over. Even if he only gives you a speeding ticket and informs you in a forlorn good-old-boy accent that he could have you incarcerated for disorderly conduct, as opposed to actually arresting you, it's not a fun game. It adds twenty minutes to your seven hour drive. So don't play this game. Or, if you must, start practicing your sincerest, good-old-girl, eye-batting apologies in advance.

I don't mind telling you...

...that I've been feeling mildly depressed for the past week, and I haven't yet figured out why. Maybe there is no reason. But I like things to happen for a reason, so I thought up a few possibilities:

1. I'm not working on a book right now, but I should be working on a book, even if I'm scared to start one because it seems like such an overwhelming thing.

2. Eating carbs and then suddenly, for the millionth time, not eating any carbs, jacks up my blood sugar and makes me feel bad.

3. I've come across several rude or just plain assholish people lately, and the more that happens, the more it makes me wonder if the world is getting ruder and more assholish every year, and the thought of that depresses the living heck out of me (until I come across three kind people in a row or something).

4. Something, or several somethings, recently reminded me of the crappier moments in my history, and I haven't yet processed those thoughts and dismissed them.

5. I've been reading too much young adult fiction in which Good battles Evil, and it makes me feel that my own life has no meaning.

6. I'm just crazy.

Or maybe it's all of those things. Or maybe I'm just tired. Today (shh - don't tell anybody), I drove my kids to school, then drove myself to work, just like every single week day. I made it all the way to the parking garage, turned off my CD player and my engine, and opened the door. Then, after a few seconds imagining myself getting out of my car and going to work all day, I closed my door and drove home, instead. I told myself that when I got home, I'd write. Or do dishes or something, so that my sick day would be worth it. Instead, I slept most of the day.

That hardly ever happens, but it's happened before. When I figure out why, I'll make it stop. Either that, or other people will say in the comments that it happens to them, too, sometimes, and then I'll quit worrying about it and move on. I'm going to work tomorrow, though. Seriously. I promise.

Voices From the Past

A few weeks ago some guy called me and, after telling me a million stories about myself in the ninth grade, managed to convince/remind me that we'd attended high school together and had briefly been friends. (I taught him to play chess. I used to carry this funky little velour bag I'd found at Salvation Army, and we learned about carpetbaggers that semester in History, so he called me Carpetbagger. He asked me to a dance and I said I couldn't go. Like all teenage girls, I dated some jerk, and this guy never thought the jerk was good enough for me.)

So we were shooting the bull for a while (Don't ask me why I talked to him. I'll talk to anybody, at least for a while.), and then he says something about how he used to have a picture of me and him. And he kept it until his ex-wife made him throw it away.

So, finally, I wondered what you would've wondered right from the beginning: Why the hell is this guy calling me? And then I knew the answer, so I said: "I don't look like I did in high school anymore. I'm fat and I have three kids. And a boyfriend."

No, no, that's not why he was calling, he said. He had a girlfriend. And, really, I'd gotten fat? We talked for a while longer and I made him tell me his innermost secrets, as payment for my time, and now I'm sure he'll never call again. So... fine.

***

On the other hand, there's this other person. There's this woman who's married to a peripheral character of my teen years - let's call this woman Vicky. Let me tell you that I've only met Vicky about five times in my life. I heard about Vicky's marital troubles from my friend, Raquel, a few months ago. Through every ounce of (unsolicited) gossip, I tried to remain objective and empathetic to Vicky's plight. Hadn't people thought the worst of me when I left my husband? Maybe Vicky was just like me. From afar, I gave her my compassion and the constant benefit of the doubt.

Recently, my friend Racquel shared several second-hand conversations with me. It turns out that, over the past few years, Vicky's had quite a bit to say about me.
One: she thinks I have designs on her husband. (I don't.)
Two: she suspects I had sex or "hanky panky" with her husband when he and I were twelve years old and I attended his sister's sleepovers. (We didn't.) And she regularly accuses him of this in times of marital discord.
Three: She thinks my writing sucks (because I don't "even use complete sentences") and that I only got published through nefarious and/or prostitutional means, and that if I were "pure white," I never would have been published at all. And she regularly says this to her husband, then screams, "Why are you defending her?!?" if he says anything in reply.

If you know me in real life, you know that it doesn't take much to make me talk loudly and pepper my conversation with cursewords. Like, for instance, if you had a purse that I really liked, I might, right in the middle of a cafe, start bellowing, "Oh my fucking god, that purse is SO FUCKING AWESOME! Jesus!" So, when Raquel told me the extent to which Vicky had been saying all this stuff about me, since meeting me six or seven years ago, I of course said something like, "Oh my god, what a fucking psycho. I'm so fucking sure. What a psycho, insecure FREAK. Oh, and I'm so sure I care what her took-eight-years-to-get-an-Associates'-in-English ass has to say about my writing - as fucking IF. Fuck that bitch. Jesus. I can't believe I was trying to stand up for that bitch. Well, screw her."

I mean, who wouldn't say that, right? I said it, and then felt better and moved on.

So, later, my friend Raquel calls me back to apologize, saying she should have remembered how "sensitive" I could be.

And that, I have to say, kind of annoyed me. I had to ask her how she would feel if I called her up and told her someone she barely knew had been saying all that crap about her. She had to admit that she might be a little annoyed, too.

Lesson: If you don't want to hear me yell a bunch of cursewords, don't tell me what psycho, insecure freaks who barely know me have been saying about me behind my back for years, okay? Because it creeps me the hell out.

Why We're Not Celebrating Valentine's Day

Tad has to work tomorrow night. Every sushi chef has to work on Valentine's Day. And that's okay. You know why? Because he seriously, truly commits acts of love against me on a regular basis. I'm just telling you in case you've been asking about it and thinking that he's cheap, or that our relationship must be on the rocks, or that we're finally showing evidence that we are each others' beards.

Tad and I are the kind of people who hate fake crap and hate doing things just because people expect us to, and that is part of why we're in love.

Tad and I are both crass and blunt, and that may be part of why you think we couldn't possibly be in love. But, if you've ever seen us drunk, (and who in Houston hasn't?) then you know that, deep down inside, Tad and I are also horribly, disgustingly mushy and romantic. To the giggling-and-handholding level. To the icky-sweet nickname-calling level. To the level that we often secretly have romantic dinners for the lamest of reasons.

We've had a very nice secret romantic dinner already this month, and Tad even brought me a very nice surprise lunch during his break today, because he knew I was home doing nothing. So I don't care if we never celebrate Valentine's Day. You know? I mean, I hope everyone out there has a very sweet Valentine's Day with someone they love or at least want to boink. But don't worry about our lack of celebration anymore, all right? There's no need.

All that being said, I couldn't resist picking out a sickly sweet/cute card last week and mailing it to Tad at his house. I messed up the timing, so he got it way before tomorrow, so it still doesn't count as Valentine's Day. But, like I said, that's okay. I'm probably going to buy my kids some cupcakes and rent us a movie to watch while they sort their messy little school valentines on the coffee table. Because that's really what the day's about, as far as I'm concerned. Sugar, and pink and red construction paper drama.

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6:29 PM #
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Friday, December 09, 2005

The Men and the Women That I Hate Most

The longer I live, the more I understand that all problems between men and women are caused by two distinct types of jerks. These two types of jerks are generally divided among the two sexes. They replicate by breeding and by shaming their weak-minded peers to be like them. They talk louder than anyone else and purport to be representative of their sexes. And here they go:

The Entitled Man

There are men who believe that their opinions, desires, and need are more important than anyone else's - particularly more important than any woman's. These are the men who tell you - on the street, in elevators, and in newspaper columns - who they would like to have sex with and who doesn't meet their standards for attractiveness. These are the men who always believe that they are right. These are the men who are mentally incapable of putting themselves in anyone else's shoes. They hurt people's feelings, and when those people complain, these men tell them to "toughen up" or "get over it." However, when someone hurts these men's feelings, they squeal like pigs and launch ad hominem attacks (or lawsuits), and accuse the feeling-hurters of committing moral sins (or breaking the law, or being "psycho bitches"). They see women as a different species.

Why are they like this? Because that's how their parents raised them to be. They spent their youths watching their mothers completely give themselves over to men.

There are two likely paths for this kind of man. One, he can find a woman as pitiful as his mother was, and happily abuse her until she leaves him, then find another, rinse and repeat, for the rest of his life. Or, two, he can go out into the real world and realize that not everyone is going to treat him the way his mother did - particularly not the 19-year-old supermodel he was hoping to get it on with. At that point, he will become embittered as hell and spend the rest of his life on Internet forums, blaming feminism for everything that's gone wrong with his life.

The Willingly Objectified Woman

We've all heard women referred to as catty, bitchy, gold-digging, and manipulative. What separates a worthless bitch from a bitch I'd have lunch with, in my mind, is the shaming.

Let's say that, for whatever reason, a woman has decided that the way to get ahead in life is to marry some guy and make him pay her way. Why does she decide this? Maybe because her parents taught her that girls are only valuable when they're attractive to men. Maybe she'd rather spend time beautifying herself and playing mind games than working at a steady job. I don't know, and I don't care, because the way others choose to live is no business of mine. Until, that is, these women decide that it's not enough to objectify themselves, unless everybody else is doing it, too. Otherwise, where's the fun? Where's the self-worth-boosting competition? Where's the company that misery loves?

I'm talking about the women who, from the very beginning, in elementary school, pick their friends not for personalities, but merely to have women to rank themselves against. Women who race their friends to get married. Women whose phone conversations consist of constant comparisons: Whose boyfriend makes more money? Whose ass looks fatter? Whose face is uglier? Whose shoes cost more? Or else it's more insidious. If you're a woman and you're not already playing their game, they'll tell you, "I think you look great, but don't you worry about other people thinking you're too butch? I know you love him, but don't you wonder why he hasn't popped the question yet? I know you think you're happy, but isn't there some seed of doubt I can cast to draw out the fact that you're just as miserable as me?"

These are the women who, when they grow old, have nothing to show for themselves anymore. No skills, no well honed personalities. That's when they turn absolutely savage, hating all women younger and prettier than them. Blaming men for being attracted to the qualities they themselves used to obsess over.

Conclusion

I wish these people would just stop. I wish they could find a way to be happy. But why would they? There are too many of them, mirroring and reinforcing the poisonous attitudes. These people marry each other and breed, and raise their children to be the same kinds of little jerks, so we can't even take solace in the thought that they might all die off.

So what do you do? Nothing. There's nothing you can do. Just keep hanging out with people who aren't like them. Keep doing what you do, and trying to be happy. That's all you can ever do.

THE END

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1:21 PM #
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Thursday, November 17, 2005

You know why I don't like to talk about politics?

Because it makes me mad. And then it depresses me. Yes, I take the arguments personally. And not in the sense that I feel like the people I'm debating with are attacking me... I mean that, when I read about politics or argue about issues or even write my political opinions on my own blog, I can't stop myself from lying awake at night and thinking thoughts like:

"Why in God's name are religious middle-class people so interested in impeding poor people's efforts to prevent unplanned childbirth?"

and

"How many people in my city would stand by and watch a neighbor die if it meant they could make $50K more per year?"

and

"If I really loved my kids and wanted good things for them, wouldn't I just spend my savings on lipo and then find an old rich Republican to entice into marriage, since working my butt off and sticking to my principals obviously isn't enough, especially now that gasoline and milk cost so much?"

and

"If Voldemort showed up for real tomorrow, would there even be three kids who wanted to fight him? Or would everybody's pa