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.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Five Quick Stories Involving Alice V.I.
When I was young - thirteen, fourteen - I used to sing. I walked down the streets of our neighborhood, amongst the stray dogs and blooming cannas, singing Blondie's "Heart of Glass." In the grocery store, I'd use the Muzak as my own personal karaoke machine. In the parking lot of St. Joseph Church, while waiting for Youth Group to start, I'd raise my hands, spin like Stephen Tyler, and sing Ozzie Osborne or Janis Joplin or whatever came to mind.
To encourage my love of singing, the youth group staff sent me to see Alice V. Or maybe they did it to punish me, I don't know. But either way, they sent me on a Thursday afternoon, across the church parking lot to a tiny orange house done up with a mural of the Virgin Mary. "Go," they said, pointing. "She's waiting for you there."
Skipping up the steps and through the door, humming a merry classic rock tune, I followed the scent of smoke. In the half light, made by dusty windows covered over with photographs and drums, maracas, bells, I saw her. Alice. At the piano bench, in an oaken haze of seriousness. Like a monument on a cliff —- no, like a dragon on a mountain. Unblinking, unsmiling, she waited for me.
I went to her, silently, the hum dead in my throat.
On the well worn piano, she played a scale of five notes, up and down. “Sing that.”
I coughed. My throat had run dry.
“Sing ah,” she said. “with the music.”
She raised her hand to play the scale again, and I knew she meant business, so I opened my mouth and squeaked, “Ah, ah, ah, ah, AH, ah, ah, ah-ah!”
Alice shook her head, then reached over and pressed my body with her left hand, right on my t-shirt and jeans. “Push with your stomach. Sing loud,” she said.
Shocked by her boldness, and totally afraid now, I pushed with my stomach and gave birth to the notes that she played on the keys. She played another scale, higher. And another, and another. And I sang through them all, trembling, but loud and on tune.
“Good,” she said. “Come back on Sunday morning.” I finally saw her eyes. They weren’t mean, like I expected. They were tired, and cynical, and bored, and amused, all at once. But not mean.
I walked out of the little house elated. Glad to be leaving, but also looking forward to coming back.
Sunday morning, back at the orange house across the church parking lot, I met with a motley crew of sopranos, altos, and tenors, all adults, all from completely different walks of life. They were the church choir, and what they had in common was that Alice talked to them all the same way she’d talked to me. For an hour we sang church songs, and she barked commands at us. Louder! Higher! Less vibrato! Take the harmony!
Everyone focused on the music, and I had no time to be shy. All too soon, the hour was up, and the other singers left to prepare for Mass. I found Alice smoking behind the sacristy, and I thanked her for the lesson.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Mass is about to start. Go into the church. Tell them to get you a microphone.”
“But,” I stammered, “this was my first practice ever, and I don’t even go to church. I can’t just go in there and sing!”
Alice blew smoke from her lungs slowly, then said her favorite thing—something I would hear her say many more times in the future. “Baptism by fire. It’s the best way to learn.”
II.
For 30 years now, Alice V. has run a non-profit arts organization near downtown. She gets local poor kids and puts paintbrushes, violins, or microphones in their hands. She writes to local Oil & Gas corporations and demands that they should give these kids money. If she can, she forces these kids to go to college. That’s what she chose to do with her life, and she does it all day long.
Fifteen or twenty years ago, I was one of those kids and Alice V. let me work at her organization after school, as an assistant assistant, so that I could have money to buy clothes. My main duties were organizing the sheet music room, and removing the yellowed leaves from Alice V.’s plants.
The main secretary was Yvonne. I was sixteen, and Yvonne was seventeen, but Yvonne was a whole lot older than me because she was six months pregnant, and I’d never even had a boyfriend yet.
One day, Alice V. needed us to drive her station wagon somewhere. Some kind of emergency—someone needed help. Alice had to drive someone else’s car to the next neighborhood over, and someone had to bring along the station wagon behind her.
“Not me,” said Yvonne. “I can’t drive.”
I quickly added, “I can’t drive, either.”
We were the only ones there. Alice looked at us with the cool glare that, by now, Yvonne was used to, but that still scared me a little bit. She turned it on Yvonne first.
“You’re going to have a baby, but you can’t drive a car?”
Yvonne giggled and shook her head again.
Alice turned to me. I was very afraid to drive the car, but more afraid of pissing her off. She handed me the keys and told me what I’d have to do.
“Come on,” she said. “Baptism by fire.”
The one-mile trip was uneventful, except for when I followed Alice under the Houston Avenue train bridge. Down in its darkness, Yvonne, my copilot, shrieked like a banshee. So I shrieked, too. It was cathartic and helped me focus. We kept it up, screeching like teakettles all the way to our destination, three blocks away. I stepped on the brake. Alice came over and told me to turn off the key. Yvonne and I fell back onto the bench seat, laughing with hysterical relief.
That’s how baptism by fire feels. Scary and thrilling, and then you’re grateful at the end.
III.
People said that Alice never laughed, but they were wrong. One time I said something silly, and accidentally made her laugh. She had a deep, smoky chuckle that came out like a cough, as if she, herself, was surprised to hear it. Then she’d shake her head, as if chuckling was frivolous, and it was time to get back to her mission of saving local poor kids.
After that, I was addicted. I followed her all around like a personal court jester, cracking jokes a mile a minute. Usually, she didn’t laugh. Usually, she just gave me food and told me what to do.
IV.
One evening, Alice called me and her other personal jester, Tania R. “I’m going to a party,” she said. “Do you want to go with me? There’ll be food.” Yes, we did want to go.
Tania’s parents owned a corner store in First Ward, the next neighborhood over from mine. I walked to her house and together, we picked through the pile of clothes that her mother sold to people in Mexico. We found things that were slinky or sparkly enough for a party. When Alice came to pick us up, we were waiting outside with the chickens and liquor crates, very excited.
The party was at a mall. Although the mall was closed for the night, its doors had been unlocked for this event. Black tie. Invitation only.
I looked at the other guests just long enough to see that they were rich, and we were underdressed. Even Alice was. She had on the same kind of skirt and blouse as always, with comfortable shoes.
So I avoided the guests and looked at the food. There were tables and tables of it. Giant shrimp on fancy skewers. Pyramids of the most expensive fruit. Mini quiches. Cheesecakes and brownies with delicate, intricate decorations.
I was in awe. What world was this, where they gave away giant shrimp for free? A world where I would never live, except for brief moments, through flukes like this.
The party had a mime. Tania and I engaged him—mimed with him and danced with him for hours. Meanwhile, Alice did what she’d come to do. One by one, she went around to every rich person there and hit them up for money. Guilt-tripped them into pledging funds. Pointed out me and Tania, happy in our used clothes, and made those people write checks.
At the end, Tania and I rode home in Alice’s station wagon, our faces flushed with pleasure and our purses filled with cheesecake and shrimp. Alice was relaxed now, and I realized that she hadn’t enjoyed the party at all. She’d done what she had to do, and fed a couple of poor kids in the process.
V.
I remember the day I left Alice’s non-profit for poor kids.
It was a Saturday morning, and I was riding in a borrowed pick-up truck, with Alice on one side of me, and my dad on the other. In the bed of the truck was everything I’d ever owned. We were driving to Austin in silence.
I’d been angry with her all week. We’d argued.
My argument had been, “I want to move in to my friend’s apartment and get a job at Dairy Queen.”
Her argument had been, “No.”
She had spent the last four years putting microphones, paintbrushes, food, and paychecks into my hands. She’d convinced a Rice professor to tutor me, to keep me from failing Calculus. She’d convinced a rich board member to pay my fee to take the SATs. She’d convinced everyone she knew to pull strings with everyone they knew, to let me apply to colleges way past the deadline. And I’d been accepted by UT. So she’d called a Representative at the State Capitol and forced him to give me a clerk job. And she’d had him badger his staff to find me a place, for free. And she’d dredged up some grant funding and called it a scholarship, and given it to me keep me afloat until my real, full scholarship came through from the University.
And so, there we were, in the borrowed pick-up truck, on the way to Austin. Alice sitting next to me, driving, silent. And I was so, so angry with her.
The worst part was that I knew, even before we left the city limits, that my anger was wrong. This was another of those situations where, in the future, I’d be laughing about how Alice was stubborn, and annoying, but right. Always right.
By the time we reached La Grange, the palms of my hands soaked the bench seat, and I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t anger I was feeling. It was fear.
It was too late to tell her, too late to apologize. I looked at her, and Alice just sat there silent, driving.
There was only one thing left to say, then, and I’d have to say it to myself, in my mind. “Baptism by fire.”
I said it all the way to Austin. And Alice was right; it was the best way to learn.
That was a true story.
On September 14th, Alice's non-profit for poor kids will celebrate its 30th anniversary. I'm going to the party, and they want me to speak in front of the mayor and everybody about the necessity of community arts organizations and their continued funding.
Although I've read this story for important people before, Alice won't let me read it for the mayor. She says, "MECA's not really just about me, Gwen. A lot of people work really hard to make this place [etc., excessive modesty, etc.]"
If you'd like to help Alice with her mission, click here. 2:28 AM # (6) comments
Monday, July 23, 2007
Ominous?Today my horoscope says, "You hard-working Capricorns are faced with a dilemma this midsummer. The Sun is now moving through your mysterious 8th House, encouraging you to delve into the mysteries of the occult, death and sex. Although these are deliciously juicy issues, it's summer and the beautiful outside beckons. Strike a balance now between the inner and the outer worlds you wish to explore."
At first, that freaked me out. The occult? Death? What in the world was supposed to happen to me today?
Then, I realized what it actually meant. See, this evening, I'll be torn between going outside and enjoying the break from the rain, and staying inside to finish reading Harry Potter.
The balance will be achieved if I take a walk to get the mail, first. Or maybe I can finish the book in the car, in the sun, as my boyfriend drives us around.
Weekend Adventure
"I wish," I told my boyfriend, Tad, "we could have some kind of adventure this weekend."
That was Thursday night. The weekend before, we'd gone into the heart of Houston's New Chinatown (aka Bellaire) and tried a new banh mi place that was straight out of Saigon. And that was exciting. This weekend, since we can't afford to travel outside of Texas, I thought we might again find something new within our own town. "Okay," said Tad. "We'll go somewhere new."
Friday night, Tad's brother-in-law called to invite us to a very impromptu celebration of his birthday. He picked a nightclub out in the satellite town of Katy, Texas, so as to make the party accessible to multiple suburbanite friends.
I'm going to call the club Bikini Bottom, because it did have the word bikini in it, and I can't remember the rest. Why did it have the word bikini in it? Because the female servers wore bikini tops, and there were girls in bikinis dancing atop the bars. The decor was darkness, disco lights, and plastic palm trees. Old (not old school, but just old and stale) hip hop blared from every corner. Upon being ushered in, we joined Tad's sister and b-i-l, their neighbor, and our friends Mike and Claudia in an alcove, where we hurried to catch up to their blood-alchohol levels while surveying the scene.
The first bikini'd girl, just inside the entrance, danced on a table near a giant bucket of beers. Her job was to dance, sell the bottles, and periodically squat down to rubber-band the ones in her register. This girl was rather attractive. At least, she seemed to be under all her makeup, there in the dim light. Every man who walked into the club stopped in front of her station to ogle. Some of them bought beers, and some just gave her dollar bills for nothing. They put them into a cut-open milk jug at her feet, and in return got... a smile. No extra movement, no chance to touch. But the men seemed okay with that, because they were in love with her. It was obvious, from the looks in their eyes and the clumsy way they tried to initiate small talk that she couldn't hear. She danced like a stripper. I wondered if she was trying to work her way back into more legitimate means of tip-garnering. Maybe she'd move up (down?) from go-go dancer to cocktail waitress, then to diner waitress, then to executive assistant, then Avon saleswoman, then animal shelter volunteer, then old lady arranging flowers at the local Baptist church.
The other go-go dancers, deeper inside the bowels of the club, had nothing but their youth to recommend them. Their youth, their lower-back tattoos, and occasional bouts of Sapphic display. While we waited for a bartender to take our order (and then admit that she didn't know what a kamikaze shot was), a tiny, roped-off stage lit up inside the bar. An emcee appeared there and called up two doughy teens in sagging, dully colored bikinis. "Shanna and Allison, are you ready for the showers?!?" he bellowed into the mike. Yes, they were. They were so ready, they shimmied against each other and kissed each other's lips. The emcee pulled the cord that activated the shower head above them. (He himself was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and jeans.) The girls got wet, did more shimmying, then shook their lank hair at the crowd. Water splatted across my face as I took my apple-pucker-flavored kamikaze from the bartender. Somehow, it didn't feel as sexy as they seemed to intend it.
The doorman hadn't hassled us at all on the way in. He wasn't hassling anybody -- an ID and five bucks got you in, and that was that. The crowd at Bikini Bottom looked like a complete cross-section of Katy, Texas, itself. There were twenty-somethings in a range of demographics, from the Ford F250 drivers, to the Camaro drivers, to the pimped-out Scion crews. There were older men in Hawaiian shirts, and older women in lacy black suits. As our friend Mike put it, "This is like Wal-Mart with hip hop." (That was before we knew that one out of every ten songs would be Latin music.)
It was Spank's birthday, and not that many of the gang had shown up with such short notice, so those of us there did our duty. We drank, and we danced. Well, Susan and Claudia danced, while the rest of us drank. That's how our set rolls sometimes -- the women dance and the men watch.
I don't like to dance when it's only women, so much, because I'm the tallest one by far and it always makes me feel kind of weird, like I'm a substitute boy. You know -- like I'm the one who has to do all the humping once everyone gets drunk enough to do the silly hump dances. Sometimes I don't want to hump, you know? Sometimes I want to be humped, dammit. But, eventually, Susan and Claudia dragged me out onto the floor and made me form a hump sandwich with them. Okay, fine, I thought, putting my hand in the air. Hump, hump, hump.
Like a magnet, a man who was not my type slid up to our threesome. "Hello," he said. Claudia said hi and turned away, Susan ignored him completely, and I did a polite but dismissive not-smile. He hovered around us for a while, air-humping but not infiltrating our boundaries. Then he went away.
I tried to disengage from the dance then, but only got a sip of beer and an ice cube stolen from the stripper's cooler before the other women dragged me back out. "Come ON, Gwen!" Hump, hump, hump. Woo!
Like a migratory bird, the stranger guy came back. "Ladies, my friend over there in the white shirt thinks y'all are fine." He pointed out his friend, who gave us a cool nod and a beer-bottle salute.
"Our boyfriends are right there," said Claudia, pointing to Mike with her drink. Susan said nothing, just shook her hair. I don't think she even saw the guy -- she was in her own little flashdance world.
"And where's yours?" he said to me. "I didn't see you with anybody." Annoyed that I had to prove my eligibility for love, I pointed out Tad, who was sitting at a little table, leaning back and drinking a Corona as if it were a nice day on the beach. He didn't even wave to me. Our interloper looked skeptical, as if I had randomly pointed out this bespectacled Asian man, shorter than me (horrors!), in order to play hard to get. He walked away to confer with his friends. I grimaced at Tad, who only laughed.
Claudia whispered in my ear, "Girl, that man wants you! He wants your healthy booty!"
"I am," I thought, "too old for this."
I was about to leave the floor again, when the guy came back again. He tapped my shoulder. I turned around and said "what" or "huh" or "uh," don't remember what, exactly. Something in my face, though, scared him away. (My natural expression, at rest, is quite bitchy.) "Okay, fine," he said. "Golly." He looked very hurt and backed away. I felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to call him back.
"God," I said to Tad, who'd never once moved from his chair. "What was up with that?"
"That guy's been watching you all night," he told me. "The minute you started dancing, he ran up."
"What?" I said. "Why didn't you do something, then?"
"Because," Tad said, "that shit was hilarious."
Two hours and one "booty-shaking" contest later (Susan and Claudia entered but I refused, as I was still just sober enough to deduce that it was rigged), Spank said he'd had enough festivities and it was time to go. And so, we bid Bikini Bottom farewell.
As Tad and I crossed the muddy embankment and the Whataburger parking lot on the way to our car, the hip hop faded behind us. A block away, in another parking lot, a group of high school kids passed us. One boy noted our clasped hands and called out, "Are y'all gonna have sex tonight?"
"Maybe," I said. Tad nodded. Disarmed by our candor, he moved on, and we whispered shared hopes for his future, and for the future of all Katy youth.
As Ford trucks zoomed around us like fireflies, we finally made it to the tranquility of Tad's car.
"Well, that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said.
"Yes," said Tad. And then we went home.
Labels: culture, my sex life, stories
6:52 AM # (10) commentsFriday, July 20, 2007
There's this really weird book. You should totally check it out.The other day my friend Ashley and I went to Texas Art Supply, which is one of the most awesome stores in Houston, partially because it contains all the Dover coloring books and copyright-free image books.
Whenever I go there, I have to look at every single new coloring book so that I can purchase at least one of them, then take it home and put it in a drawer in my vanity, next to my unused box of Prismacolors. That is my habit. That is my way. Right now, I have the following Dover coloring books in that drawer:
Old-Time Children's Fashions Coloring Book
Gods of Ancient Egypt
Chinese Fashions
Japanese Fashions
Classic Cars of the Fifties
I'm very picky about them. I can't just buy any coloring book and then take it home and never color in it. The ones I pick must have particular characteristics as far as facial expressions, line thickness, and color variety potential are concerned.
So, like I said, I was very carefully going through the new coloring books, trying to decide between medieval fashions and fairies, and Ashley was keeping me company. She'd found a book of illustrations of scenes from the Bible and was entertaining me greatly by commenting on it aloud.
"I love the Old Testament," she said. I don't love it, myself, particularly, but I appreciated her enthusiasm.
"Oh, God," she said. "Look what they did to Jacob. This is horrible." I think Jacob was the name of the guy who had to wrestle the angel. It was, as Ashley pointed out, a very lackluster illustration. Jacob looked tired and more like he was hanging on the angel, begging for lenience, than wrestling him. Ashley said this was an injustice, since Jacob (or whoever) had actually put up a pretty good fight until the very end.
At that point, I noticed a man walk near us. On the back of his calf, he had a tattoo of a red, winged devil woman. She was nude and had large, red, devil breasts. I whispered for Ashley to look at the tattoo. She said it was awesome. We went back to the Bible.
"This one's my favorite," said Ashley. She showed me a picture of Lot, his wife, and his daughters fleeing Sodom. "Did you know that, after they left and Lot's wife looked back and turned to salt, Lot and his daughters went to a cave, and his daughters got him drunk and..."
"Had sex with him?" I said. "So they'd get pregnant?"
"Yes!" said Ashley. "Isn't that awesome, that out of the four people in Sodom who weren't sinners, three of them ended up performing incest?" We looked for a picture of the incest, but there wasn't one.
The guy with the devil woman tattoo had a wife. Or a girlfriend. She was pushing a stroller, and the child in it let out a cry. The guy went to join them. He and his woman talked inaudibly, into each other's ear.
I had a thought. "Find the one," I told Ashley, "where the guy has sex with his handmaid, while the wife watches."
"Ooh. Is that... Abraham?" She found Abraham and Rebecca, and then a grown-up Ishmael, but no actual illustrations of handmaid-impregnating menages a troix.
"Did you know," I said, "that people think Cho Seung-Hui identified with Ishmael, and that's why he wrote Ismail Ax on his arm? And, like, in Muslim culture, the story's opposite -- Ishmael's the one who inherited, and Isaac didn't?"
The tattooed guy and his family were still within earshot, I noticed. They seemed to be moving in a semi-circle around us, close enough to hear us but not close enough for me to hear their whispering. They looked annoyed. I saw the woman roll her eyes.
"I think those people want to look at the coloring books," I said. They're waiting for us to get out of the way."
"Screw them," said Ashley.
"I know," I said. "Why don't they just come up and look at them? It's not like there isn't room."
"Okay, who the hell is this?" Ashley exclaimed, showing me a picture of the Garden of Eden. It contained Adam and Eve, obviously, but also a giant, forlorn man who looked like Rodin's Thinker or maybe the Jolly Green Giant. "Who is this guy?"
"I don't know. The giant guy that David fought? The devil?"
"No... I think it's supposed to be Gabriel," said Ashley, pointing to the winged Gabriel on the previous page. "And he took on the form of man... but why does he look so ridiculous?"
"Maybe he smelled the apple and morphed into the Jolly Green Giant. Because... you know... vegetables." Really, I know the New Testament way better than I know the Old one, because they never read the Old Testament at church when I was singing in the choir. How did Ashley know so much about it, I suddenly wondered. Had she actually read the Bible? Knowing her crazy ways, she probably did. She's artsy like that. She only works part time, then does art and/or reads obscure texts all the rest of the day. Or photographs her friends partially clothed near the bayou. Or takes the bus to Whole Foods and buys herself a coconut. She's a bohemian. That's why she fascinates me, I think. I would never, ever be a bohemian (because I grew up poor), but it's fun sometimes to watch her be one.
By now, the tattooed guy and his lady were openly sneering at us. Was it because they wanted unfettered access to the coloring books? Was it because we were speaking of the Biblical art in a less-than-respectful tone? Was it because we were ignorant of Gabriel's giant phase and too obviously dense for them to explain it to us? I wondered if maybe I should read the Old Testament. But then I decided that, no, I'm probably too delicate for it.
I ended up getting the coloring book with fairy tales scenes that related to flowers. And fairies. There was a gothic alphabet coloring book, and it turned out that Ashley knew the author. But I didn't get that one because I didn't like its lines. Sorry, Heather.
I also got a pencil sharpener, so I can sharpen my Prismacolors, now that Ashley's shown me how to properly open their box. Who knows -- I might actually color a fairy this week.
Labels: books, pop culture, stories
6:13 AM # (5) commentsMonday, June 25, 2007
Expensive Flea BagsMy youngest son and I enjoy driving down to the nearest big-box pet stores each weekend and seeing the caged animals up for adoption. Particularly, we like the kittens.
Every time we go, my son asks if we can get a cat. I ask how much the adoption fee is, and it's invariably $85 or more.
This past weekend, they wanted $85, and the kittens had mucus-y eyes and visible fleas on their kitten-stomachs. Give me a break. The county shelter is selling cats two-for-$55 right now. I know what's up with these little non-profits showing up at Petco and PetsMart. They're just old women who like cats, and they're running 501c3s that will let them write off the cat food while "fostering" any old flea-ridden, stanky, meow-box they can find. The cats cost so much because these cat ladies don't want to get rid of them.
And I don't blame them. When I get older and my kids have all moved away, I'm totally opening a "no-kill shelter" called Miss Kitty's Pitter Paws Sanctuary Haven, and that'll be my excuse to pet mangy cats all day long. (Because I like cats. Get it? I'm being sarcastic, but not really.)
Can't we all just get along? While flapping our hands?
(Some of you may remember that one of my children was recently, formally diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, which is a form of autism.)
So I don't know what the hell I was thinking, trying to hook up with the "autism community" online. No, wait -- I do know. I was thinking, "Oh, hey, maybe I can meet local parents of kids with Asperger's, and my son Dallas can meet another 12-year-old Aspergers kid who also likes video games, Roombas, and energy-efficient vehicles. And they can hang out on weekends without anyone telling them they act weird or talk weird. Yay!"
But I was completely delusional on that front, because that's not what the online autism community is about. Nope. It's not really a community at all, but a bunch of splintered factions, each of which pursues its own cause. Here are the separate causes, as far as I've been able to gather:
1. The curebies. Curebies are people who believe that autism has some environmental cause, often one (such as vaccinations or the mercury in our tuna) that might lead to a huge, class-action lawsuit. They get online and talk about all the stuff they're spending money on to cure their kids, and how they're getting other people to pay for it.
2. The anti-curebies hate the curebies, and they're very vigilant about it. Like, if you go on their forum and say, "Oh, hi, you guys. Y'all seem cool. I'm looking for a playmate for my son, who is really good at math and likes Roombas," they might say something like, "Oh my god! How dare you insinuate that non-savant ASD kids aren't as GOOD as your kid, and need to be chelated into what passes for normalcy among you stupid, rude, hypocritical NTs!!!!! Leave our forum immediately, curebie! We're trying to talk about American Idol!"
3. Embittered adults with autism. These are the people who make me want to say, "Dude, I'm sorry that your parents were ashamed of you and made you undergo chelation and biofeedback... but could you please not call me a stupid, rude, hypocritical NT? At least not where I can read you saying it? You don't even know me. I'm here trying to get help for my kid." The worst is when they're abusive to NTs, then say they can't help it because they have autism. Hello -- if I can teach my son not to call people names, I think your mom should've taught you, too.
4. There are the "autism parents," who wage daily battles to force everyone in the world to treat their children with respect. Or, if not actual respect, then with special consideration born of fear of lawsuits, maybe. Some of these autism parents have kids with more than just autism, though. "Hi. My name's AspieMommy, and I'm mommy to Darren, 14, who is ASD, OCD, BpD, and Tourettes; Shelly, 8, who is PDD, OCD, OPP, and GGG; and little Wendell, 1 and a half, ASD, PCP, TNT, and EGBDF!" A lot of times, I notice people identifying themselves this way and then asking forum strangers for help. "Can I get a ride to the support group? Anyone want to form a playgroup and/or babysit? Can I bum a cigarrette?" I have to wonder if some of them are real. What's the acronym for Munchausen?
A subset of the autism parents are the autism parents who also have autism, themselves. I can't compete with that, I guess. I mean, they make that fact pretty clear.
5. The biggest factions of all? The political ones. The "movement" people. Every autism organization in America, it seems, hates every other autism organization in America. Every member of Factions 1 through 4 above seems invested in a giant competition for the leadership of "the movement." For instance, the adults with autism think they should run their own movement. Which makes sense to me... until they start hating on the parents of kids with autism, saying those parents can't really advocate for their own children, since they themselves don't have autism. They all have blogs, and they all complain about what's fair, and which blog should be the leader, and how unworthy blogs shouldn't have as many readers, and blah blah blah popularity contest disguised as real discourse.
6. Then we have the celebrity autism parents, and then the celebrities who've played autistic characters, and they're throwing in their two cents for this organization or the other. And then the celebrites who don't want to admit their kids have autism, because Scientology thinks that's a sin...
And, oh my God. Can I please just meet someone whose autistic kid might want to play with mine, without all the bullshit?
No, apparently not. What was I expecting from the freaking Internets, huh? Okay, fine. We'll be at home, playing video games and reading articles about the High Wire, the car of the future, which my son happens to know all about, if anybody out there is interested.
Good Books I Wish You Would Read
First of all, please, please read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Thom Haddon. If you've already read it, press it on others. Not only will it help you to understand what some autistic peeps go through on a daily basis, it's also a damned good book. Seriously. It made me cry, it was so awesome. And it's on a lot of high-school reading lists, so get your kids to read it, too.
The other book I recently read and enjoyed was Things You Should Know, a story collection by A.M. Homes. Yes, I know that I've told some of you that A.M. Homes scares me, and I'll never read stuff by her again. But this one's safe. It contains almost nothing about child abuse. You can read it at night without worrying about monsters coming to kill you. And the price of the book is worth it for the very last story alone. Teaser: It's about Nancy Reagan, and you will both laugh and cry.
That's all for this section. Besides those two, I've been reading a lot of non-fiction, which isn't worth linking to unless you, like me, are weirdly obsessed with bead crocheting or Christmas crafts. Also, I tried to read a novel that was highly recommended by a lot of book-bloggers, but I couldn't get past the first two chapters. I won't name it, because there's no need to be mean. I'll just say that, by the end of Chapter 2, I was like, "I get it! You're drunk, and you like to drink, and you black out all the time because you drink so much! I don't care!" 'Cause, seriously, I didn't.
Someone turned us on to a local gelato place.
And my life will never be the same.
An All-New Way Not to Care What Others Think
Back to the Asperger's thing. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that my son is experiencing an intensifying of his symptoms, now that he's embarked on the magical journey that is puberty. One of his more noticeable symptoms is the tic'ing. (Ticking? Ticcing? He has tics.)
When he was very tiny, he flapped his hands, which is a very common tic for autistic peoples. He flapped for years, until people in his family made enough jokes about it to persuade him to stop.
Then, he started clearing his throat, instead. And, I wish to God I could go back in a time machine and realize that the throat-clearing was an actualy tic, and not just a bad habit, like boys spitting out the windows of their cars. Because I have to say that I'm probably the one that made him stop the throat-clearing, with my constant nagging, because hearing it was driving me crazy.
So, now, he doesn't flap or clear his throat. He does something silent, but very noticeable, involving his head, his face, and his hands. Sometimes his arms in their entirety. I've been struggling really hard with the compulsion to control his tic. Other people tell me, "Dallas is doing that thing again. It's getting worse." And I whisper, "Shh. Just let him." But it kills me. I admit it - sometimes I really want to say, "Dallas, could you maybe flap your hands, instead?" No... let's be very honest, here. I have said that to him. But he can't flap his hands instead, and he can't go back to clearing his throat. The tics are involuntary. He can't not do them. And, it's not like they bother me, on their own. But I imagine him doing it at school, or out in public, and that people will stare or even make fun of him. And it kills me. I worry for him. I can't help it.
And that's not all... Lately, he seems to get upset more easily, and therefore he prefers to spend more and more time alone. That's not always possible, though. Social obligations do oblige us all sometimes. For instance, over the weekend, we went to a family dinner at a local restaurant. It was a belated Father's Day celebration, with my dad and my youngest brother and his family. Normally Dallas passes on family dinners, but this time he had no choice.
As always, I prepped all three of my kids ahead of time. I explained what we'd do, with whom, and how they'd be expected to act at each stage of the game. Dallas was worried about the restaurant we'd chosen, because he's a little particular about his food. My boyfriend Tad and I assured him that this restaurant had the pasta and pasta sauce he preferred. He nodded his head. He was ready to roll then, ready to do as duty required.
When we got to the restaurant, all my preparations came undone. There was no preferred pasta. Instead of the regular menu, they had brunch. All different foods, nothing like we'd described. Dallas stared at the menu and became visibly upset.
It's not that he's so spoiled that he can't eat something new. It's that he has a hard time with unexpected change, and with plans being derailed. (My boyfriend would argue that's probably a trait that he inherited from me, not a symptom of autism at all.) Add to that the stress of forced social interaction in a crowded, noisy, public place, and maybe some of you easily imagine how upset Dallas became.
I invited him to take a walk with me outside. He accepted. Away from the restaurant's windows, he said, "I don't want to cry, but I can't stop myself."
"That's okay. Cry," I said. "Sometimes I have to cry, too. Go on ahead."
He cried until he was done. Then we stood under a tree and talked about the menu options, Italian restaurants in general, and the custom of Sunday brunch with bottomless belinis. As we walked back to rejoin the family, Dallas thought of something new to worry about.
"Everyone in the restaurant is going to wonder what we were doing. They're going to look at us and know that I was crying."
"No, they won't," I said. "Everyone in there is dressed up nice, and they're drinking. All the women are worried about how they look, and all the men are worried about hooking up with the women. All people think about themselves more than anything else. They won't even notice us."
And they didn't. And Dallas ordered the pizza, and the rest of the brunch/lunch went off without a hitch.
And, afterwards, I realized that most people are too self-involved to worry about my son's tics. If they see him tic'ing and want to know why, we can tell them why. But, hopefully, most people will probably be too polite to ask or to stare. If they want to go home and talk about Dallas's tics behind our backs, there's nothing I can do about it, so screw them. It doesn't matter. Our lives are filled with family, family lunches, good times, video games, gelato. Movies, school work, work-work, housework. Internets and books and flea-ridden-kitten sightings.
I realize, then, that I really don't have time to worry about what people think, about anything at all. And the best "cure" I can give Dallas? Is to teach him to fill his life with good stuff and not worry, either.
Labels: Aspergers, domestic, parenting, pop culture, stories
6:41 PM # (21) commentsTuesday, June 12, 2007
All my meters are incorrect.I'm still doing the magical eat-less-exercise-more diet that I started at the beginning of May. I try to eat 1600 calories or less each day, and I try to exercise as much as I can without feeling sorry for myself. And I think I've lost some weight. It looks like I have. But I bought a cheap scale, just to be sure.
According to my book (can't lose weight without a book), 1600 per day will make me lose 8 pounds per month.
According to my scale, I lost 7 pounds in May. Then, I gained 5 pounds during the first week of June. Then, I gained another pound before the second week of June was even half done. Then, apparently, I lost 5 pounds yesterday. Oh, and sometimes I weigh nothing.
It's too late to return the scale. Even though I'm pretty sure it's broken now, I keep weighing myself on it. I don't know why.
Meanwhile, I'm home sick today. I have the same illness I get over and over, in which my body has chills and fever, my stomach feels blech-y, and my muscles are weak. This morning I decided to take my temperature, so I'd have a hard fact to give my coworkers when they ask me, tomorrow, exactly how sick I was.
My temperature was 95.5. I think that means I actually died, on Saturday, and now I'm secretly a zombie, unbeknownst to anyone.
I almost died on Saturday.
We went to the beach town known as Surfside, Texas, and immersed ourselves in the filthy water. Normally, my height and buoyancy keep me safe in the deep waves. Normally, I love the deep waves. But this time, a huge wave overcame me and almost took my life.
My boyfriend was standing a few feet away. He said, afterwards, that a smaller wave had just knocked the white Nike visor from his head. It was bobbing a few feet in front of him, and he was reaching forward to grab it, when the big, almost-lethal wave overtook us.
First, the big wave hit me. "Yay!" I squealed, right before being knocked underwater. I landed partially on my left knee, which scraped hard against the ocean floor, but mostly on my boyfriend. "Garba glubba blubba!" I told him, as, like crabs in some kind of crab porn movie, we tangled limbs in the brine. I couldn't get loose. Couldn't get my face out of the ocean.
One long minute and two liters of inhaled salt water later, I was finally free. Standing on my own two sea legs again. My boyfriend was standing, too, safe. But his visor? Lost. Lost to the wrath of Neptune and/or Calypso.
"I have to find my visor!" he kept saying, throughout the afternoon. He went into the water with his glasses, then without his glasses. The kids went with him, sometimes. But they never found it. "Your visor's in France now," I told him, but he didn't listen. "I'm sorry," I said, but he said it wasn't my fault.
I stayed in the beach chair, under the beach umbrella, while everyone else searched and swam and conquered the waves. I'd had enough of the beach to last me all year, already.
My children are giant monster locusts.
Four years ago, when my boyfriend first met my three small sons, he said, "Three boys. Those kids are gonna eat tons of groceries."
"No," I told him. "You're wrong. My children are very polite."
Today, two of my kids are taller than my boyfriend. Taller than me, even. They wear giant shoes - sizes 13 and 12 and 10 - and their feet get bigger every school year. Faster, actually. I make them wear their shoes until three out of five toes are emerging on either side. Only then do I buy them new shoes. Again.
And, so, yeah, they eat a lot. It's frightening. I'll bring home groceries. Make them take the bags out of the van and pile them on the kitchen counters. "Put these groceries away," I say, and then run to my bathroom for, like, twenty seconds, to empty the bladder that has been rendered weak and worthless by the birth of three kids. When I come back, all the groceries are put away, all right. Into my children's stomachs. All the stuff is gone. There's like, one can of Campbell's Won Ton Soup left, and the kids are punching each other in the heads to see who gets it. They're knocking each other over, into the louvered doors that hide the washer and dryer, and those doors are broken again. They're dragging each other up to the roof of the house, then taking turns pushing each other off. When one falls, old, broken toys fall out of his pockets, all over the back yard and the patio furniture. Then one falls on the patio furniture, breaking it. Then, suddenly, all the furniture in the house is broken. The couch has giant holes in the cushions, and in each cushion is a stash of Nutrigrain bars or mini carrots or bizarre Asian candy or Campbell's clam chowder, hidden there by a seemingly starving child.
"Goddammit," I say. "Quit that!"
"Sorry, Mom," they mumble.
Then I have to go back to the grocery store for more. Again. Every minute of every day. It's the only reason I work anymore - to buy my children groceries. 1:02 PM # (11) comments
Friday, May 25, 2007
This is my week to come clean, apparently.subtitled The Asperger's PostWhen stressful things occur in my life, I like to take a week or month or year to process them before discussing them with anyone else. I think it's a superstitious thing -- I can't risk having things "jinxed" while they're still freshly occurring. Or else maybe they're like paint -- not safe to touch when freshly applied.
Hence, I'm just now telling y'all about stuff that's been on my mind for months now. I think it's a good sign that I can talk about these things on the blog now. It means I have them a little more under control. That said, I'm gonna talk briefly about one of my kids now, and what's been going on with us.
My middle son, now 12, was recently diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, which basically means "touch of autism." This didn't come as a big surprise to me, because I noticed shortly after his birth that he had some autistic-esque symptoms. I'd never bothered to have him formally diagnosed, however, because he's very bright and had managed to get along well enough through his younger years.
Until now. Now, in middle school, he's been having a lot of problems. Or, maybe I should say that people around him have been having problems with his behavior. At first I defensively blamed our new school district, branding their staff as intolerant, but it was bound to happen, I suppose. In elementary school, everyone was used to Dallas's slightly un-typical ways. No matter what middle school he went to, I suppose it was inevitable that people would notice and react to his differences in a bigger way.
So, we started the formal diagnosis process back in November or December. I was really, really reluctant to have my child labeled, but by then, it had become the lesser of two evils. My son's behavior was being misconstrued in a way that affected his grades.
Common Misconceptions Surrounding People with Aspergers
1. People with Aspergers often find it uncomfortable to make or maintain eye contact. That discomfort can be misconstrued as disinterest or disrespect.
2. People with Aspergers often cope best with situations in which the rules and expectations are logical and clearly explained. Questions about rules can be misconstrued as disrespect for authority.
3. People with Aspergers, although often extremely intelligent, sometimes cope with stress by doing things that "typical" people don't. Like verbal tics. Or repetitive movement (rocking, hand flapping). Or focusing on inanimate objects. Or seemingly disengaging mentally.
Add to that the fact that people with Aspergers are frustrated by things that don't necessarily frustrate neurotypical people. Like certain noises, or prolonged eye contact, or seemingly illogical occurrences, or flickering lights, or being touched on the head, or being touched at all. So... someone reacting atypically to something a neurotypical teacher would not find stressful can be misconstrued as willfull misbehavior. Or horseplay. Or constant lollygagging. Or disrespect. Or mental retardation. Or Tourette's. Or a condition that, although unidentified, would surely be improved by a little Ritalin. Or stupidity. Or simply something "weird," that needs no investigation or empathy, but only for this weird kid to be removed from your class. From your sight. From your mind.
4. People with Aspergers don't learn social skills in the same way that neurotypical people do. Whereas most people make eye contact with their mothers and caregivers instinctively, from birth, people with Aspergers might not make eye contact unless they are explicit told to do so on a regular basis. And, even then, they might not make it "correctly." Whereas you or I might grow up with a general instinct about eye contact -- when it's appropriate and when it's creepy -- a person with Aspergers might need to have every detail of that knowledge explained.
And how do you explain knowledge you were born with, or knowledge you picked up on instinctively? If a person can't make sense of the rules of eye contact, the first building block of social interaction, on his own, how will he make sense of the intricacies of small talk, or making friends, or finding romance? Will he be able to detect dishonesty, insincerity, or malice? If people are threatening him, bullying him, taking advantage of him?
(The answer to that last: Maybe he will learn these things if he concentrates very, very hard on understanding them. Like Mr. Spock struggling to understand Captain Kirk and Dr. Bones. Or maybe he will learn these things if he's taught them by very patient, very empathetic people.)
Back to my story... the story of an overly stoic mom...
So, like I said, I feared having my son formally labeled. Why bother, I thought, when he gets along just fine at school? And when there's no cure for Aspergers or autism, anyway? What's the point? Why go through the hassle? Let him keep passing as a neurotypical person.
I wasn't in denial, exactly, but I do admit that the idea of identifying my child as "disabled" had some strong conotations for me, personally. For instance: I was raised to believe that going to the doctor is only for emergencies. That asking for help is only for emergencies. That highlighting one's own differences is at best a cry for attention and, at worst, a cry for pity.
I would take care of it by myself, I decided. I researched and read everything I could. I coached Dallas on my own. I talked to his teachers frequently and diplomatically and smoothed over the few incidents that occurred. (It helped that his teachers, on the whole, were very empathetic people. For that I thank God.)
Y'all might remember that I was very disappointed last year when Dallas didn't get into any of the middle schools that we applied for. I'd had my heart set on staying in Houston's Inner Loop, but it seemed apparent that the Inner Loop had its heart set on ejecting us and replacing us with someone richer.
Y'all might remember that I was equal parts happy and apprehensive about buying a house in the suburbs. Although people have been thriving in the suburbs since caveman times, almost, it was new and alien to me, and I feared massive culture clash and change.
So now we live in the neighborhood that I will call Farfield, and my kids go to school in Farfield ISD. And, as I mentioned above, people at Dallas's new school noticed right off the bat that he was not typical. And, so, it came to pass that diagnosing his atypical-ness was what I had to do, if I wanted it construed as what it was, and not as disrespect, retardation, stupidity, or a disability requiring medication.
And now that that's all been done, I'm glad. Farfield ISD turns out to have some extremely awesome, competent educational professionals. And they have what promises to be an awesome program to help kids with Aspergers learn the things that they can't learn instinctively.
So, in a hokey, superstitious way, I've come to believe that the circumstances that led us there did not take place by chance. Inner Loop gentrification and housing inflation, Dallas's bad middle school application luck, our apartment's sudden rat infestation -- it all led to Dallas traveling to a place where he'd get help.
Which is good, because people need all the help they can get, I realize. Even me.
This is going up unedited now. More on this later. Much more, way later. Thanks for reading, y'all. 6:09 AM # (28) comments
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Down and Dirty MotheringYesterday, after work, I had to brave the grocery store to get last-minute Valentine's Day supplies for my kids. I wanted to get a surprise gift for my boyfriend, as well, but nothing at Kroger looked good, so I decided I'd wait until this morning and try somewhere else.
I stopped on the way home from the grocery store and bought my kids a nutritious dinner from Whataburger.
I came home, force-fed the burgers and chicken strips, nagged everyone about homework and chores, and then started my work. My other work, I mean. Not my day job, but my writing. While I worked, I kept in touch with my kids' activities via frequent hollering.
I worked my brians out. I tore it up. I finished what I'd set out to do so many weeks before, thank God. And then, two of my children screamed. "Mom! Dallas threw up!"
I ran into one of the bedrooms just in time to see Dallas projectile vomit all over the floor, the bed, and his music stand. Quick as a mom, though, I took care of the situation. Within half an hour, all was purged and everything detoxed.
Dallas asked to lie on the couch and watch TV while his brothers finished up their chores and pre-bedtime rituals. I said okay. I went back to work (there's always more work to do) and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He fell asleep on the couch. His brothers fell asleep in the other bedroom, the one that had clean sheets.
Dallas woke up suddenly and puked into the bowl I'd left on the floor at his side. I jumped up and helped him, then detoxed again. I realized I would have to put Dallas in my bed for the night, since he obviously had a virus or else seriously bad Whataburger poisoning.
So, then, Dallas and I went to bed, whereupon we entered a twilit hell. From 9 PM until 6:30 AM, we never slept for more than a half-hour stretch. I won't go into extreme detail, but I will say that, during the night, I queued up a lot of emergency laundry, including two sets of bed sheets, two blankets, three pillows, two towels, four washclothes, one set of woman-sized pajamas and three pairs of boy-sized boxers.
Poor Dallas.
In the morning, my other two sons got themselves dressed and went to the schoolbus stop. I supervised this via hollering from my bed, or from the bathroom as I held Dallas' head, as the moment required.
I went ahead and called in sick to work. (Because I also had diarrhea today, hence it was a real sick day, hence anyone reading this who may have the power to dock my pay for today will know not to do so. Ahem.) Dallas and I managed to sleep from 7 to 10 AM. Then I got up and showered and ran back to the grocery store to replenish our supplies of Immodium, toilet paper, Gaterade, and soup. I didn't get my boyfriend anything for Valentine's day, after all. Instead, I texted him and told him not to come over for dinner, after all. He was going to cook for us, but I didn't want him to end up sick.
It was funny that I got an impromptu day off today, because I'd already finished the writing I had to do, so I didn't have much to do at all but look after my kid. And laundry. And cooking dinner. (And I did write a little, anyway, of course, while Dallas slept. There's always stuff you can write, if you're trying to make extra money.) Whatever he had, passed. Thank God.
It was weird: Watching your kid be sick is such a sucky feeling. You feel so effing helpless. But, at the same time, you know how to deal with it, even if you haven't had to deal with so much of it in years. I was glad I could be there for Dallas and take care of him. More than that, though, I'm glad he's not puking anymore.
Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. 9:23 PM # (12) comments
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Rainy SaturdayI feel virtuous this morning because I started on my taxes. Mostly, that means I skipped through TurboTax steps while making notes of information I need to find in the pile of papers on and in my file cabinet. But I'm pretty sure I'll be paying this year. Either that, or just barely breaking even.
The other day a guy showed up to edge my lawn, because my homeowner's association sent me a pissy letter about the edging, and I did buy a weed whacker but it hasn't been enough to battle the edges left by the former owners. So I'm waiting for this guy to show up, and he's late, and I go down the street to get the mail, and I see other guys working on another lawn. I have a long talk with them. (In Spanish, so it took a lot of thought and effort on my part. How do you say hedges in Spanish?) They give me their number for future lawn service consideration. They were hard-working, normal-looking guys.
So then I'm back home and this guy shows up to edge my lawn. (See first sentence of paragraph above.) His appearance surprised me. He'd told me, on the phone, in perfect English, that he would be there himself. (He was a co-owner, not an employee.) So I don't know what I was expecting. But it wasn't the guy who showed up. He was styled sort of like a younger, straighter Raymundo Baltazar. But cuter than that. He had red highlights in his gelled hair, and the cutest short-sleeved western shirt over his gray cotton thermal.
The way he spoke to me gave me the impression that he was used to being forgiven by women, whether for postponing their lawn service or sleeping with their friends. It was funny. He wasn't my type, but he amused me, so I let him do the lawn. And then I paid him the price we'd agreed upon, even though he didn't bring the tools to trim the hedges. When he left, he smiled over his shoulder and said, "Maybe you can write a review for our company." I guess he'd noticed me typing away while he worked.
I'm thinking I'll call the normal-looking guys next time. I wouldn't want this cute guy working on my lawn more than once or twice a year.
The grass is still wet outside. I like that I can see my back yard while I'm typing. We have one squirrel and one tiny wren who forage here every day. All the leaves on my pear tree are suddenly red and gold. There's a pile of tangled windchimes on a broken patio chair. I need to hang them up for good feng shui. But I'm not in a hurry. I'll type a little more, first.
Labels: stories
11:02 AM # (7) commentsFriday, December 01, 2006
Christmas Gift Expectations and InadequacyI have this friend. Let's call her Trudy. (Trudy, you're going to know I'm talking about you when you read this. But no one else will know unless you tell them. Don't be sad. I love you. This is a story about our love.) Trudy and I have known each other since 5th Grade.
No, wait. That's not how I should start this. Let's start again.
As longtime readers know, I grew up pretty poor. Actually, I was born rich, in the most beautiful neighborhood in Houston, but then, over the years, Corporate America and Cruel Circumstance shifted in such a way as to watch my family turn poor. Very, very poor. As poor as you can be while still having a house to live in.
So I was 15, 16, 17 years old, and very poor. And yet Christmas still occurred, every year, like it always does.
You know how easy it is for non-poor adults to get caught up in feelings of guilt and inadequacy when it comes to giving gifts. And you know how teenagers' lives are often just long strings of shame and melodramatic humiliation. So, I'm sure you can imagine how crappy it felt for me, as a teenaged girl, to be poor and unable to buy nice gifts for the people I loved.
So, I got creative. Often, right at the last minute - right before the party or the dinner or the choir rehearsal, I would run around our big, drafty house and grab all the materials I could - anything sparkly or expendable - and make my friends gifts. Often, the gifts would be comprised of completely nonsensical things. Or pilfered things. Or things I'd completely invented from found objects and scraps of paper.
Usually, they included writing. It wasn't enough, I knew, to give someone a pair of safety goggles that I'd borrowed from our high school's biology lab. But, if I wrote a story to go along with it - like, say, a story about the goggles having magic that would enable the wearer to view their football-playing crush's underwear - then it was passable. It was funny - a personalized gag gift.
Like I said, I would create these gifts at the last possible minute, and wrap them in comics or aluminum foil or discarded ribbons, and give them to my friends quickly, and swallow down the lumps of shame while I tried to graciously accept their beautiful gifts in return. And, as soon as Christmas was over, I'd breathe the pure relief, and go back to being normal-poor instead of Christmas-poor.
And then I got older, and I got a scholarship, and I went away, and I got married, and I got credit cards, and I wasn't poor anymore. And, thank God, and on the Christmasses that came then, I would by my friends completely normal gifts and feel so freaking good about it. And, once in a while, one of my friends would say, "Remember that year you gave me a whole box of stuff with a list of clues, and one of the gifts was safety goggles you stole from Ms. Alexander's class, and you said they were x-ray goggles and I could use them to see Elias's underwear?"
No, I'd say. Jesus, no, I don't remember that. Thank God. How embarrassing.
I have this friend named Trudy. She's been my friend since fifth grade. Like me, she grew up poor. Like me, thank God, she's doing well now, and I'm so happy for her.
Even though we've lived far away from each other for the last fifteen years, Trudy still always wanted to exchange gifts. Even though we sometimes didn't get a change to do it until January. Part of our ritual has always been exchanging wish lists, first. Sometimes the wish lists contain funny items. Trudy's, I noticed, often contained small things that sounded like groceries. "She must be worried that I can't afford anything better than that," I'd think. A lot of times, I'd ignore her list and buy her something nice, instead.
Last year, I told her, "Trudy, I love you to death, but it's getting to be a massive pain in the ass for us to do our gift exchange. Do you mind if we don't do it this year? Can we just try to get together some time for lunch, instead?"
I hate that we hardly see each other in real life anymore. When we do see each other, one or both of us always has to drag kids/husbands/boyfriends along, because God forbid two women with families should be allowed a single day on their own, right? Y'all mommies out there know what I'm saying. So, I kind of hated getting all involved with the gift/list exchange, then hoping for a chance to see each other in December or January. It was stressing me out. Plus, Trudy kept putting weird stuff on her wish list, and I kept stressing over what to actually buy her. Surely, she didn't just want socks and candy bars and shampoo. But how was I supposed to know what to buy?
A few weeks ago, Trudy called me and, among other things, said, "Hey, I know we said last year that we weren't going to do a gift exchange, but is there any way you'd want to do it this year? It'll only be you and me - we won't buy stuff for the kids or the men."
"Um..." I said. She wasn't the only person I'd skipped last year. A couple of my other friends sent out anti-consumerist emails stating that they didn't want to exchange gifts - they'd wanted to have dinner or lunch, instead. And it had worked out well. Gift buying really stresses me out. I was glad to cut my list short last year - why would I backslide this year?
"I know this is dumb," Trudy said, "but I really miss our gift exchange. Remember, back when we were kids, how we used to give each other candy and painted pennies and rocks and stuff? And we'd write each other letters, and draw cartoons? Seriously, Gwen, those were some of the best gifts I ever got. I know it's corny, but I kind of miss that."
When she said that... I know this is kind of corny, but it almost made me cry.
I didn't even remember, until she said it, that we used to give each other pennies that we'd decorated with nail polish. I barely remember any Christmas-specific letters or cartoons, but, thinking back now, I can imagine what they must have contained. Expressions of loyalty. Laughter over our hardships. Uninformed jokes about sex. Fantasies of what we'd be when we got older. All closed with SYBF - Signed Your Best Friend.
So then, all of a sudden, I knew what she'd meant for the last fifteen years. She'd never wanted "normal" gifts, or "nice" things. She wanted what we used to exchange - the tangible expressions of our love.
All that sounds completely cheesy and homosexual, I know. But I'm not playing Charlie Brown theme music in the background here, and I'm not about to launch into a story about us having a pillow fight in lingerie.
I'm just saying. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about giving gifts this year. 9:07 AM # (9) comments
Monday, November 27, 2006
Manufactured Drama, Part 1I never do the Black Friday thing because I hate crowds, especially crowds of grasping, mannerless conformists. Not that I'm saying everyone who shopped Friday was that. But I think you know what I mean.
However, last week I got an ad in the mail informing me that Kohl's would have for sale the exact video game and video game accessory that I was planning to buy for my children for xmas. Also, all their boots would be half off, and I've been wanting a pair of brown boots. So I reasoned that Kohl's probably wouldn't be too crowded on Black Friday, and I decided that I would go.
We didn't get to bed on Thanksgiving until around 2:30 AM. I like my family, and we have fun when we get together. Therefore, we all got together and drank and ate and made fun of each other until the wee hours. So I was in no condition to wake up in time to be at Kohl's at 5 AM. Instead, I woke up at 9:30.
I went to Kohl's alone. My boyfriend and my kids waited at home with sugar plums (or World of Warcraft quests) dancing in their heads. The Kohl's parking lot was disorganized. Inside, the first thing I saw was several displays of picked-over sweater. Signs everywhere advertised special sales for this two-hour period only. A single line stretched from the cash registers in front, all the way to the back of the store.
After searching fruitlessly for a while, I asked a Kohl's employee where the PS2 games were. He seemed to have a hard time understanding what I meant. I had the impression that he wasn't normally a floor worker. It looked like a lot of people hadn't shown up to work that day, and maybe they'd temporarily promoted this guy from stocking. However, he eventually indicated that the games were somewhere in the men's department.
Kohl's had (cleverly?) interspersed all the advertised electronics throughout the clothing departments in the hopes that, while searching for my video game, I'd be irresistably tempted by the socks and stepped-on sweaters all around. Instead, I was upset by the lack of video games. Either there weren't any Desired Game II's around, or else I was too stupid to find them.
I started looking at the purchases of the people in line, to see if any of them had Desired Game II. No. No one had that, and no one had the portable DVD's advertised, either. Instead, I saw people standing in an multiple-hour-long line to buy: a Barbie dreamhouse. A palette-load of no-name video games. A thing that looked like Desired Game II but that was, to the trained PS2 habit enabler's eye, definitely not Desired Game II. Sponge Bob slippers. I'm assuming that stuff was marked 40% off.
The line reached its midway point near the shoe department. With one glance, I saw that there wasn't a single pair of brown boots in Kohl's worth waiting in line for an hour to buy. Not even for half the price.
I left. Then, instead of going to Hobby Lobby to buy a marked-down fake xmas tree, I drove back home. That was enough Black Friday for me.
In my car, I listened to a local AM station headquartered in one of Houston's poorer neighborhoods. It was playing a talk show about managing money. The hosts were talking to a local car dealership owner, but the conversation had tangented into imploring listeners not to believe the Black Friday hype. "I see people running around buying gifts they can't afford for people they don't like," said one of the hosts. "I saw a woman driving around with a car full of purchases, and she didn't even have working AC. She had to roll her windows down," said the dealership owner. (It's Houston. Yes, we need our cars to have working AC in November.)
Anyhow. Listening to them made me sad, because I knew they were telling the truth. And I knew half their listeners weren't listening, and would be spending money they didn't have, anyway. And for what? Long lines of gifts you settled for, at 40% off, at 20% interest. Gifts nobody will remember.
Manufactured Drama, Part 2
This morning on the radio - both on NPR and on the local conservative AM station that gives traffic and weather reports every ten minutes - the talkers were talking about Cyber Monday.
See, last Friday was Black Friday, and today is Cyber Monday. That means, allegedly, that shoppers who went unsated at brick-and-mortar stores over the weekend are supposed to shop online in record numbers today.
"Don't be surprised if the Internet is sluggish today," warned one guy.
I call hype-mongering. Why would people who shop online pick today to do their shopping? I've been browsing gift ideas for weeks now. Why should I believe people who believe that the whole Internet would somehow run slower today, even if people were shopping more?
And yet, why do I know in my heart that there were people listening to those stories and thinking, "Oh my God, I'd better hurry up and buy stuff online"?
To NPR's credit, they clarified that today is dubbed Cyber Monday because it was the biggest online shopping day of last year. But they said most people just browsed and didn't buy.
This hype is killing my buzz.
The more people hype stuff, the less I want to do it. Seriously, I don't even want a Christmas tree this year. I mentioned that last entry, but since then I've been dwelling on it, crystallizing the idea in my mind.
I don't want to buy a fake tree. Fake greenery is not the kind of thing I buy, no matter the season.
I wanted to buy a real tree, even though it would've been a pain. But now, I don't even want to do that. What's the point? What does it mean? Lately, nothing.
Last night we watched Father of the Bride on cable, and I thought of how dumb American weddings are. Every time I see someone plan a wedding, I think about how many of our customs have no meaning or, worse, have offensively arcane ones. That's not a new thought, I know.
But now I'm starting to feel the same way about Christmas. What's the point of having a dead tree in my house? We're so far removed from the German pagans who invented that tradition. Why should we put fake reindeer and snowmen in our yard, when we're driving our cars with the AC full blast?
When I was a child, Christmas meant two things to me. One: Christmas pageantry. I would sing and dance and dress up for audiences, and their applause would mean the world to me. Two: Free stuff. We were poor, so free stuff was a major incentive in our lives, and December meant more free stuff than usual, if we played our cards right.
Thank God we don't have to live like that anymore. Also, I no longer go to church just so I can sing.
Obviously, if I want to celebrate Christmas, I need to find out what it means to me and my family, and concentrate on fulfilling those meanings. Last year I asked the kids what their favorite part of the holiday was, and they told me it was opening their stockings in the morning. Good, I said, because I like filling their stockings at night. In fact, the part I like best now is giving gifts to my friends and family, because I love them and I don't get a chance to show that often enough. The other thing I like is hanging out with my family. We'll do that, then. Good for us.
If we had more money, I'd buy presents for poor kids every year. It would make me happy to give kids the same crazy, bittersweet, materialistic pleasure that I used to hope for every year.
Is there anything about the winter holidays that has special, hype-free meaning for you? Tell me, please. Share with the class. 9:00 AM # (9) comments
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Disappointment, thy name is Benassi.Very quickly, let me tell you. Semi-recently, we went to see Benny Benassi at a club. I was the one who wanted to go most. You don't know who he is? Okay - you know that song with the Speak & Spell voiced chick going, "Push me, and then just touch me, 'til I can get my... satisfaction... satisfaction..."?
No? Okay, well, forget it, then. Just know that he's some techno guy who's living off the success of his one album from a zillion years ago. And I wasn't the only one who thought that was enough to pay $15 pre-show to see him. The very large club was jam-packed with fans.
First up was DJ Red, though. I never heard of him til that night, but he was good. Everyone was dancing and happy to be alive while DJ Red was spinning on the stage. It was me and my boyfriend and Mike and Richard there, and one of Mike's friends named Jim. Hardcore music enthusiasts, all. None of our other club-friends had been hardcore enough to brave that crowd.
Then one of Mike's other friends showed up - a boy they called Goofy Rick, or else Gimpy Rick. (Don't ask why; I never do.) I only see Goofy Rick once in a while, but I remember that he's always polite to me. And he's always, always goofy.
Round about midnight, Mr. Benny Benassi deigned to appear. Boy, his fans were glad. I was glad - hey, I didn't download his album illegally, or copy it from my friends. I bought that thing full price, and I loved it. But some of his fans there were more devoted than that. Some of them were wearing suits and argyle vests, as Mr. Benassi has been known to do.
Not Mr. Benassi himself, though. No. Hell no.
Muthafucka gets up on stage looking like he just rolled out the hotel bed. Hair all uncombed. Jeans and wrinkled t-shirt. Benny Benassi walked up looking like my Uncle Jose when he gets home from his job mowing lawns.
Which would have been one thing, if he'd spun anything good. But he didn't, so it was something else altogether. It was a waste of $15. ($25 at the door.) "Bring back DJ Red," a bunch of us were thinking. Matters weren't made better when local DJ Sean Carnahan took the stage. Apparently, Sean had helped arrange Mr. Benassi's visit. But, seriously, a lot of us had to wonder, who the hell wants to look at Sean Carnahan sitting up on the speaker next to Benny Benassi, smiling like a possum? Get off the stage, Sean.
The only thing to do, after that, was laugh at Goofy Rick. I swear, that guy was killing us. Everything he did involved humping or getting humped by everyone in the club. He humped Jim's friend Jody. Then he feverishly humped and necked with our friend Mike. He danced next to Richard and stroked his long, invisible member, until Richard told him to quit.
The best/worst thing, though, was when he walked up to the three bored/annoyed/frumpy girls who were standing on the rail, next to me. These three girls obviously weren't there because they liked techno music. They'd walked in with a single gay guy, but he'd removed his shirt and thrown himself into the sweaty throng a long time ago.
Goofy Rick got up behind the saddest, most annoyed girl and pretended to freak-dance against her. But without touching her, of course. And without her seeing him at all. But her friends saw.
Goofy Rick went away. The Sad Girl's friends lost no time, then, telling Sad Girl what he'd done. With pointing, pantomime, and eye-rolls, they explained it all. Maybe it was the beers I'd had, but it seemed to me that they then pantomimed a plan. They would dance, enticing Goofy Rick to fake-hump them in turn. Then, they'd turn around and tell him off. Maybe even kick him in the balls.
Sad Girl watched from the corner of her eye while her two friends danced. Her two friends watched Goofy Rick from the corners of their eyes while their dance increased in lasciviousness. But Goofy Rick didn't seem to notice. He was involved in a conversation with Richard by then - maybe a serious conversation about the maintenance of his incredible invisible manhood.
Sad Girl's two friends danced and danced, thrusting their hips back in Goofy Rick's direction. They threw their arms wantonly over their heads. Eventually, they no longer even tried to hide the fact that they wanted his attention. They stared at him over their shoulders, smiling and licking their lips.
But he was over it by then. He had other things to do. Before he left, he sneaked up behind my boyfriend and kissed his neck. Then, he fake-humped me once or twice from behind. And then, dear reader, he was gone. The end.
Sad Girl and Friends looked very disappointed. They were sad that they hadn't gotten the chance to give that horrible man a piece of their minds, I guess.
Maybe it was just the Blue Monkey shot I'd had that was making me think this, but suddenly, that whole episode was the funniest, most poignant thing I'd ever seen in my life. Clear as a memory, I could see Sad Girl riding home in her friends' car, dwelling on the fact that she had been the one Goofy Rick had chosen.
I couldn't stop giggling about it. But Benny Benassi never got any better, so way before Sad Girl and two AM, we went home.
Labels: Houston, pop culture, stories
9:49 PM # (4) commentsWednesday, November 01, 2006
Scene-SettingToday 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.
Labels: health, psychobabble, stories, vanity
1:14 PM # (8) commentsSaturday, June 17, 2006
Thank the Baby JesusSo, last night at 2 AM I made a decision that removed approximately thirty-seven kilograms of weight from my shoulders. Namely? I decided not to buy a house. Not this year, at any rate. Next year, maybe.
Take care of yourselves, kids. If you find yourself becoming so stressed out over a situation that you stop worrying about the situation and start worrying about how you're ever going to cope with it... Then it's time to get out.
Next year I'll have more money and better credit, and more time to search. And, if not? Then I'll know for sure that it wasn't yet meant to be.
Like magic, another solution to my housing/schooling dilemma appeared before me. A much more manageable solution, that is. So I'm happy now.
Words About My Dad
I don't talk about my family members very often on this blog, because that would remove the focus from me, of course. But, in honor of tomorrow and my increasing ability to think outside myself, I'd like to tell y'all a few things about my dad. (For the purposes of this entry and for anonymity's sake, I will refer to him as Daddy.)
1. Daddy had some jacked-up stuff happen in his life. He was a sergeant in our Vietnam War, for one thing. People ask me where he was stationed and what he did, and I don't really know because he doesn't like to talk about it. All I know is a few details.
2. The scar on his foot is from stepping on a sharpened stake in the jungle. It went all the way through his boot. (I found that out when he'd had a few beers and then tried to watch a TV show about the war and it made him have a flashback.)
3. He used to play the saxophone, the flute, and the recorder before the war. Now he doesn't.
4. He saw his best friend die.
5. He wasn't drafted. He says he volunteered in the hopes that people who really didn't want to go wouldn't have to.
6. He learned some Vietnamese. He used to speak it with the convenience-store-owners in our neighborhood. One time he tried to ask for ice ("frozen water") but instead asked for urine ("yellow water"). Vietnamese, as we all know, is hard to pronounce just right.
7. He won't come with us to the Vietnamese restaurants.
8. But he's always very nice to my boyfriend, who was born in Vietnam.
9. Daddy has survived the war and other tragedies, and sometimes I think that's what's made him a very cynical man. And yet, at the same time, he's cynical in the wittiest way you can imagine. It doesn't matter what annoying, awkward, or boring thing occurs - my dad will always come out with a scathingly hilarious sentence that knocks us all out. There are things my dad has said that I've repeated over and over again, to friends and strangers alike, for years after the fact, and with no need for poetic license. He is an endless font of cutting perceptions of his fellow man. And yet, at the same time, I can't help but sense that he loves his fellow man, secretly, despite everything.
10. Daddy would give me anything I asked for: money, shelter, food, an unbending ear. But I don't like to ask unless it's an emergency. Usually, knowing that he's there for me is enough.
11. Daddy taught me to value people for their actual personalities and strengths - not for their money or social importance. Sometimes I wonder if this tendency has made it harder for me to become filthy rich. But even if that were the case, I'd never trade my dad's value's for anyone else's.
12. My dad gives me the best book plot ideas I've ever heard in my life. But I don't think I'll ever use them, because I probably couldn't do them justice. Maybe if we're lucky, my dad will take up writing...
13. Daddy knows how to read Tarot cards. He doesn't think they're a game, though. So don't ask. Unless you're me. And, even then - don't ask too often.
14. When Daddy, who is single, plays pool with ladies at bars, he gives them a good game, but still lets them win. (I only saw it happen once, but my brother filled me in.)
15. Daddy, although Mexican, can pass for Iraqi or whatever Muslim ethnicity is in the hated vogue. Daddy, although well spoken in English, can pass for a man who speaks no English at all. Although these situations enrage me, Daddy keeps his sense of humor when they occur. He even has a treasury of phrases at the ready. For instance, if someone asks my dad, "Do you speak English?" he might say, "I have a smattering of the local dialect."
16. Some people think Daddy looks nothing like me, but they are wrong. I have his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. It's just that he's brown and I'm beige, and he has wiry black indio hair, while I have my mother's brown Breck Girl locks.
17. One time, before I was born, near a college campus not far from here, Daddy serenaded Mommy with Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven". Her response was not appreciative, but he managed to marry her, anyway.
18. Daddy chose not to baptize us because he wanted us to be free to make our own religious choices. I still haven't made any, but I'm grateful for the freedom.
19. Daddy, more than anyone I've ever known, can pull philosophical themes out of the worst TV shows and movies in the world.
20. Daddy taught me to speak in tangents. The older I get, the more I appreciate his.
21. Daddy reads this blog every day.
Happy Fathers' Day, y'all. Feel free to make a meme of it and tell me about your dads. 10:08 PM # (13) comments
Friday, April 07, 2006
Star Struck DumbLet's say you're exiting a cafe with your friend at the end of your lunch hour, crossing a parking lot to get to your vehicle and head back to work. Let's say, then, that you turn and see one of your town's local news reporters sitting on the patio of the cafe you just left. It may take you a second to process that you are looking at the same face you see on TV each day, and then a second longer for that person's name to appear in your mind. Once that happens, what would be the most appropriate course of action for you to take?
A. None. It's a local news guy. Who cares?
B. Quietly point out the local celebrity to your friend.
C. Politely approach the news reporter and tell him, very briefly and respectfully, that you enjoy his work.
D. Point at the news reporter with your full arm, as if he is a flying saucer or an approaching tornado, and yell across the parking lot, in your most grating tone of voice, "THERE'S REGGIE AQUI!!!"
I did Letter D. I have no defense. Normally I'm cucumber-cool when I meet celebrities or politicians or the Queen of England. (Okay, I only saw her for a few moments, while I was a clerk at the Texas State Capitol in 1990. But still.)
Because celebrities are just normal people who happen to be on TV or the radio or in positions of great power, right? Nothing to freak out about. But, for some reason, seeing Reggie Aqui sent a jolt through me that could only be dispelled in embarrassingly squawky rudeness. I guess I could tell you that it's because he's very, very handsome. But that would be the lamest admission of all, so I won't make it.
Mr. Aqui reacted as graciously as could be expected. "Yes, here I am," he said with a polite celebrity smile.
"I watch you every morning," I called back, trying to save the moment. I wondered if I should say, "You're doing a really good job there on Channel..." I couldn't remember what channel he was on. And I don't even know if he does a good job, actually. I never listen to the words he says, because they send him out to the most depressing crime scenes. I only look at his face for a few moments, then change to The Style Network or Bravo or Anthony Bourdain. So I told Reggie I watched him every morning, and then I mumbled, "And it's awesome," and then I whispered, "because you're hot!" as we got into the car, leaving the man to his cell phone conversation, already in progress. And my friend laughed and said, "Who's that? He's very handsome."
Yes. Yes, he is. He's Reggie Aqui.
So, Anyhow
Nothing much else to say. All I've been doing is working, playing, loving, something, day or night, Jordache has the look that's ri-ight... The Jordache look... [music]... The Jordache loo-ook...
I know I'm getting old and a lot of y'all don't know that Jordache jeans commercial jingle. Maybe some of y'all don't even know what Jordache jeans are. And if you don't, that's good. You should keep it that way because, in your case, ignorance is bliss. Don't hate - congratulate.
Me and some friends are going to a poetry reading tonight. People like to say that they only go to those ironically, because they're uniformly horrible, but they aren't always. Once in a while there'll be someone really good. And, if not, it's good to hear the horrible stuff, too. It's bracing. Cleansing. It's like high colonics for your mind.
I'm thinking about removing the Comments doohickey from this blog because I don't want to see how many comments I get, and then be unable to refrain from wondering if I should be getting more comments. I don't want to type stuff while wondering, in the back of my mind, if that particular stuff make people comment in a certain way. Such as, "Gwen, that is so weird, what you just said. Why did you just say that? Are you crazy? Are you evil?"
Not that anyone's ever said that. But I refrain from typing the things that might make them say that, you understand. I don't care what people think about me, but I do care what they say about what they're thinking, there in the Comments. Apparently. So it seems.
I thought about removing the comment function from this particular entry, as soon as I'm done typing it. But then, people would email me and say, "I'm only emailing you because your comments are broken."
Don't say that. Instead, say, "I'm only emailing you because I must."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because love compels me. I don't love you, because I barely know you. But when I read what you've written, I feel love. Probably for myself. In fact, it's all me, this feeling. I see that now. I don't need you at all. Goodbye."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because the demons that possess me guide my hands."
Say, "I'm only emailing you because I'm here at work, and out of everything in the world that I could choose to do to distract me from that fact, with your entry today, you have merited me choosing your Inbox to be the recipient of my ennui."
Say, "I'm only emailing you. Okay, that's all. Goodbye."
I'm not going to remove the Comments link, but no one comment, okay? Don't look at me! I am beautiful, no matter what they say... Words can't bring me-e-e down! O-oh, no-o...
You knew that song, didn't you? At least, everyone who didn't know the Jordache song did.
That's all now. I love y'all. I love you, Reggie Aqui. Even though I don't know you. And I'm only not emailing you because I don't want to scare you with the demons in my soul. And I'm only not commenting because you don't have a blog. But if you did, your Comments numbers would be high, I'm sure. High as a flying saucer. Full of Jordache jeans. And love. Goodbye. 8:54 AM # (19) comments
Monday, March 27, 2006
I Suspected the People Downstairs Were Drug DealersBut now I suspect it for sure.
My only evidence, before, was that they partied all night and slept all day, and fill their hedges with cigarette butts and Jack Daniels bottles. All this, and no evidence of jobs.
Today, however, I went home for lunch and witnessed a semi-harrowing scene. A burly gentleman banged on the Downstairs Neighbor's patio door, yelling, "Open up, motherfucker. I know you're in there. Wake the fuck up!" Meanwhile, a small sidekick gentleman with an Oakley knit cap sat in one of the patio chairs, giggling helplessly to himself.
Downstairs Neighbor came out, looking sad. Inaudible words were exchanged. Then the burly gentleman said, "Yeah, you better. You're a waste of my fucking space, you asshole. A WASTE OF MY FUCKING SPACE."
And then he and his sidekick peeled out, throwing menacing glances over their shoulders. I had the feeling that, if they hadn't caught a glimpse of me catching a glimpse of them, they, as mid-level drug dealers, might have given Downstairs Neighbor (aka Low-Level Drug Dealer) a quick, well deserved roughing up. In the parking garage, my suspicions that these gentlemen were mid-level drug dealers were confirmed by the fact that they drove a tasteful white Mercedes.
Now, I'm not saying that my experience is extensive. And, as a writer, I think we all know that I like to exaggerate and embellish upon any experience that I do have. So, with that understood, I'll now present to you...
Gwen's Guide for Discerning Drug Dealers and Their Levels
Low-Level Drug Dealers:
- Party all night and sleep all day
- Have a lot of "friends" who don't seem to share their social/cultural strata
- Either spend their earnings on gold chains, basketball jerseys, and Escalades with gold-toned chrome, or else drive beat-up Civics and wear rags because they spend their earnings on drugs
Mid-Level Drug Dealers:
- Are aggressive people who've probably made names for themselves by bullying Low-Level Drug Dealers
- Seem to have jobs, because they drive around all day
- Wear Oakley and Armani Exchange
- Drive less flashy, but still flashy cars, like Mercedes, because they consider themselves classier than Low-Level Drug Dealers
And, finally, the Top-Level Drug Dealers of each metropolitan region:
- Keep to themselves, with quiet parties among small groups of friends
- Have no discernable jobs, but make you think at first that it's because they're students or their parents are rich
- Wear J.Crew and GAP clothing
- Drive Land Rovers or Jeeps
- Often decorate their apartments with Christmas lights
Okay. That's all I have. That, and the fact that I don't mind drug dealers as long as they keep to themselves and let me keep to myself, you know? And don't talk to my kids. Although, so far they never have. I guess my kids don't look like they're crafty enough to steal or rich enough to have an allowance.
I kind of wished the Mercedes Crew had roughed up Downstairs Neighbor while I watched, because Downstairs Neighbor and his cohorts keep us all up at night. I bet if Mercedes Man had started beating the crap out of Downstairs Neighbor right there on the patio, all the other neighbors would have come out to cheer him on.
Meanwhile, Here Is a Gall-Bladder(-less) Update
Several alert readers warned me furtively, in e-private, of changes I could expect in my digestion after the removal of my gall bladder. Now, as a public service, I will impart those changes to you.
Before the gall bladder surgery, I could go to the "handicap stall" of the "Ladies'" here at work and read Loving Cal by Miss Rebecca Walker, in its entirety, within three unsuccessful visits.
Now, I no longer have time to read Loving Cal.
I don't even have time to flip through the water-marked Soap Opera Digest, should I ever become desperate enough to do that, so that I could mentally remark on the fact that the cast members of The Young and the Restless still look the same age as they did when I first saw them twenty-two years ago.
That sounds like a bad thing, but it's not. It stops just short of being a bad thing.
On the other hand... I worry about Rebecca Walker, because Loving Cal's cover price is only $1.98. Assuming she gets 10% royalties, that's only 19.8 cents per book. How can she live on that much?
Maybe she has a day job in the insurance industry. If so, she must be ecstatically happy. Therefore, I will quit worrying about her and get back to work. 1:13 PM # (8) comments
Friday, February 24, 2006
How to Survive White Trash Hell on New Year's Evean illustrated story by Gwen
When Tad told me that the gang wanted to attend a New Year's Eve event sponsored by a particular local radio station, I was skeptical.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm worried that, if it's sponsored by that radio station, it might not be... you know. Nice."
"No, baby, it'll be fine," he assured me. "It's black tie optional." Then he coughed, and muttered under his breath, "Or you can wear togas, or lingerie, but the guys want to go because it's open bar."
"What's that, sweetie? I didn't catch that last part," I said.
"I said, we should go to the mall this weekend and buy you a nice dress." And the subject was promptly changed.
This was the picture I wanted to use to show y'all how I looked on New Year's Eve.
But my boyfriend said not to, so I'm using this one, instead:
I think I look nice.
When our group met up in the line for the event, all our female members immediately shared with each other the fear that, being sponsored by this particular local radio station, the party might not be quite as... elegant... as we were hoping. As we were dressed for, I should say.
All too soon, we discovered that our fears were well founded. Because, while our group had chosen to dress like this:
... other attendees had chosen to dress like this:
Let me rephrase. While we had chosen to dress like this:
... other people had gone with the option of dressing like this:
No, seriously. I don't think you're getting it. I'm trying to tell you that there were people there dressed like this:
You see the situation clearly now, do you not? Yes, not, I'm sure that you do.
And I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with dressing like that. In public, on New Year's Eve. No, because I don't judge. All I'm saying is that, if I had known that 70% of the attendees would be dressed like that, I might have left my good rhinestones at home.
The women in our group felt many emotions at that point. Now that it was too late to get a refund for our tickets... Now that we'd spent several hours getting ready for the evening... Now that we had not yet gotten our money's worth from this beer-sponsored, Linkin-Park-cover-band-ridden event... I'm not going to say that the main emotion was disappointment, and I'm not going to say that the chief sentiment was "Mike is never, ever picking the place for New Year's Eve again." I'm just going to let you imagine how you would have felt at that point, if you were us. And I bet you can imagine it well.
Obviously, there was only one thing to do.
And once we did that, we thought of a few other ways to pass the time until the 1 AM buffet.
Such as, for instance, cursing our fates...
Catching up with friends...
Coming up with new variations on the classic devil-horn photographic pose...
Dancing our troubles away...
Getting to know young ladies seated near our party...
In more than one sense...
Or, in my case, stealing Cyra's camera and using it to photograph myself with strangers.
It's easier than you'd imagine. Especially after everyone involved has had a beer. Here's the key: Don't ask the strangers to pose with you.
Just put your arm around their shoulders, and hold up the camera.
And, instinctively, they will look into it and smile. Voila! (Or else, they'll look down at your boobs.) (Voila!)
Sometimes, they will kiss you. Whether you realize it or not. Whether you're absorbed with doing your "Sailor Moon fingers plus prominent tongue" pose or not, and whether you remember it the next morning or not. But don't worry - you'll have the photo, so you can treasure the moment forever, either way.
One guy's group of friends caught on to what I was doing, and they gathered around me. "He thinks you're hot," one of them screamed, pointing at the one guy and then at me, in order to facilitate his point.
"I am hot," I agreed.
"No... He thinks you're hot!" the guy's friend screamed. A little louder, so I'd understand.
"I am hot," I screamed back, in case he'd missed my point.
"No... Our friend thinks..."
Finally, I realized what they were trying to tell me. They wanted me to take a picture of myself with their friend, and then post it on my blog. Okie dokie, guys. Here you go:
I have to admit that, in that photo, their friend was totally right. And so, although I'd felt insecure earlier in the evening, with this man's approval of my appearance, my life had suddenly become complete.
All too soon, however, the new-found fun was over. As the clock struck midnight, like magic, heated misunderstandings broke out in the ladies' room. Like a beautiful rainbow, some guy didn't appreciate Richard trying to make out with his wife. Like fairy dust sparkling on gurgling streams, vomit emerged from partygoers' mouths.
It was time to go home. And so we did, with designated driver intact. And as we rode down the city streets, with Richard lying wrapped in a tablecloth across the laps of everyone in the back seat, our hearts welcomed all the potential of 2006. And we promised ourselves, through laughter mingled with tears, that next New Year's Eve, we'd stay home. 11:29 PM # (19) comments
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 wer