Check out this interview I did with Eric Ladau of Houston's NPR station, KUHF. Even though he made me talk about the intense stuff and edited out my long tangent about wanting to compete with L. Ron Hubbard with my own tamale-based religion, I had a lot of fun answering Mr. Ladau's questions. (Warning: The recording has 2 or 3 badwords. One of them is the F Word, too.)
I had fun reading at Blue Willow Bookshop. Everyone in Houston/Spring Branch area should check them out -- it's like the Brazos Books of the Far West Side. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Explain to meHow does this person named Six_of_Cups have one of my books for sale, when my book isn't out until May 31?
This reminds me of the last time I had a book out on Amazon, and someone was selling a signed copy that I don't remember signing.
Oh, well. This is capitalism, I guess.
flying; my pants' seat
I have several projects due pretty soon at work, and there are still parts of our project-turning-out process that I don't know how to do. Learning: Too bad it doesn't seem to burn calories.
Also, I'm going to fly to Dallas in a few days, and I don't have my plane tickets yet. And I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there. And I don't know what to wear. And I don't know what I'm allowed to take in my luggage.
And I'm too tired to look it all up. I'll look it all up tomorrow.
high school reunions
I've recently come into contact with two people I haven't seen since we went to Reagan High School together.
One seemed happy. The other didn't.
happy Mothers' Day
We celebrated the birthday of one of my kids, belatedly, instead. I kind of felt bad, for a fleeting instant, that I didn't have anyone to buy a nice gift for.
I mean, I could have bought something for my mom, but she doesn't like anything nice. She only would've been happy with:
a) a carton of cigarettes and some lottery tickets, or
b) a bunch of magazine pictures scribbled with a leaky pen and rolled up in aluminum foil, or
c) like, a black nylon coat from the Goodwill that smells like smoke or something.
Which is fine, except that I didn't feel like shopping for any of that stuff.
(To those of you who are new to this site: My mom has been schizophrenic since I was very young and I'm so calloused and jaded about it that I can make flippant comments about the uncouthness of her illness once a year or so. Apparently.)
If my Aunt Sylvia were still alive, I could have bought her anything sentimental and she would've been happy. I could have bought her, say, a white ceramic bear with a lacy plastic heart glued to his chest with the words "Luv U Mom!" and a fake carnation emerging from the back of his head. And she would've been pleased.
But I would've bought her something nicer than that.
Instead, I helped pick out flowers for my boyfriend's mom. I really enjoy shopping for flowers. I said, "How about candy to go with the flowers? She doesn't like candy? How about shower gel? No?" Afterwards, my boyfriend offered to buy me flowers, too. But I declined. Because I wanted to pick my own flowers, and no one had anything I wanted. Seriously -- the flower selection was rank this year. Prematurely wilted.
I told him I'd buy myself flowers next week, when everything's replenished. Instead, I bought myself a pedicure, on Friday. "This," I told myself, "is my Mothers' Day gift."
I mean, I would've gotten a pedicure either way. But still.
I might be secretly upset about some of this, on some level, and that's why I'm typing so much about it. If so, that's okay.
And it's okay if you don't like Matt Damon, because I like him enough for the both of us.
My kids and I had a Jason Bourne Film Festival yesterday and today. I love the hell out of those movies. Even though I hated the book, The Bourne Identity, when I read it was back in the day.
Everything is better with a little Matt Damon, though. I've always liked him. Also, did you all know that Clive Owen was in the first movie? And Eomer, from Lord of the Rings, was in the second? (That's who my son said it was. I could check IMDb right now to be sure, but I don't feel like it.)
video game news
They're coming out with another World of Warcraft expansion that takes you to Level 80, and my lazy night elf character, Xora, is still only Level 35. Khan.
We opened up a lot of new songs on Rock Band, but my voice is still sore, so I bought some new clothes for my character, Xora Jane. I cut her hair short and dyed it green. My kids said, "What happened to your hair?" Kind of like they said about my real hair, now that it's short and dyed red.
But, you know. These things happen.
We got this game called Assasin's Creed that everybody keeps telling us to get. I had a long conversation with the game store clerks, during which they each explained to me, separately, that it was about the Crusades. ("What do they call that? That religious thing?") So now I'm excited, even though I can't play console games worth a crap because my fingers haven't ever adapted to the boomerang-shaped controllers. The Game Stop guy said I should totally sit on the couch and watch my kids play, though, just to see the story unfold.
I think my kids paid him to tell me that, actually. That's their fantasy -- that I get rich and quit my job and buy them more video games and then sit there, watching them play.
okay
Stream of consciousness writing time over! It's time for bed!
Goodnight. 10:22 PM # (6) comments
Monday, April 07, 2008
Talking with Artists about ArtSomething's in the air around me lately such that I keep finding myself talking with artists about problems and issues related to the actual act of doing art. Over the past month, I've thought about the particular concerns that come up when you collaborate with another artist on a long-term basis. I've commiserated with others over the different kinds of artist friends you can have. (Those you can count on to do work and to support your work, and those you can only count on for drinks, basically.) I've talked with a lot of people about the need to promote one's art and how that differs/detracts from creating it. The two main art-related subjects I focus on, habitually, are art for profit vs art for art's sake, and finding inspiration vs forcing yourself to work.
While talking about this stuff with other people, I began thinking about famous dead artists and what we know about their work habits. Do we know anything? I haven't read any biographies on famous dead artists lately, but nothing in popular culture comes to mind. I know that Van Gogh cut off his ear, but I don't know if/how he used caffeine while working. I know that Dali was obsessed with breasts and fruit-picking devices, but I don't know if he ever said, "Don't invite that jerk Man Ray to exhibit with us. He's always late and he never chips in for wine and cheese."
I read most of Stephen King's memoir and wished he'd talked more about his cocaine use. How could he write, while addicted to coke? How did he physically, mentally do it? How'd he do it before he used drugs? What did he think of his contemporaries? When he played in that rock band with Dave Barry and his other writer friends, did switching mediums inspire them to write more, or was it just a necessary break? I don't know. Doesn't say. Maybe I need to go to the library.
There are live, not even so famous artists I admire a lot, and I always want to ask them intrusive questions about their creative processes, but I refrain. I know that kind of stuff is hard to talk about, and there might not be that big a market for it, anyway. It's just shop talk, maybe, only interesting those in the industry. Guess I should say, then, that I'm greatful to the artists I know, for their willingness to talk shop with me. Because otherwise I'd be lonely. (Lonelier.) :)
My Least Accomplished Accessory
I've never been one for wearing belts. That began, most likely, because I grew up poor, and belts aren't really accessories that poor women buy. They don't buy belts, scarves, or trouser socks, I don't think. Instead, they buy costume jewelry, cheap bags, and knee highs, because those things give you more look for the money.
So then, I became un-poor, but also fat. And fat women don't wear a lot of belts because the only ones that fit are the ones at Lane Bryant, and those aren't very exciting.
So... This story sounds like I'm trying to get sympathy, but I'm not. I'm just telling y'all that, for one reason and another, I've never really worn belts, and therefore I don't feel comfortable accessorizing with them.
And now I'm not poor, and I'm less fat, and I subscribe to Lucky magazine. And, as all of you who read Lucky know, women are supposed to wear belts with every single outfit they own. You have to wear a pair of pants with a dress on top of it, then a cardigan wrapped over the dress, then a belt tied around the whole thing. Or, you can just wear a dress by itself... as long as you wear it with a belt. Or you can put the cardigan with your jeans, as long as you have a leather or canvas belt in plain sight on top of that. Or you can wear panties and a bra and a big, thick neutral belt. Or you can be naked, with a thin, metallic double belt.
You see what I'm saying? You're supposed to wear belts.
Not that I follow Lucky's advice. I don't -- especially not as far as layering and color matching are concerned. I don't know how it is in New York City, but here in Houston, we can't get away with wearing dresses on top of other dresses, one in yellow and one in maroon. That's, like, against our laws. It's too hot for that many haphazard layers. Also, we're still working the Three Color Rule here, as far as I can see. "Don't be wearing more than three colors at once," that is. Some people count neutrals with that, some liberal people don't.
See what I'm saying? I'm not about to go overboard and buy anything that Lucky calls luxe, lush, or louche. But I do feel the need to buy belts lately, and I do wish I knew which belts went with what. Because the black suede number with the star-shaped rhinestone buckle? That I got from Torrid four years ago? I don't think that works with anything in my closet anymore, and it's too big now, anyway.
That's all for now, y'all. Talk to y'all later. I'm gonna go Google "belts" now. Either that, or I'll actually go back to my office and do some work. 12:02 PM # (18) comments
Sunday, March 23, 2008
How I Spent My Spring Break VacationI ate too much, exercised too much, slept too much, spent too much, and didn't work enough. So, you know, it was awesome.
My kids got back from their dad's today. Before they did, we hid three dozen candy-filled eggs and set up a new badminton set in the back yard. Hot dogs for dinner. Fun, fun, fun.
How Starbuck Spent Her Spring Break Vacation
She went into the backyard several times, under adult supervision. Once there, she explored and practiced climbing the pear tree.
Once, Tad caught a lizard and set it down in front of her. She immediately picked it up with her mouth and carried it into the house. "Oh, no!" the lizard said.
"A new toy, with batteries!" Starbuck said. She dropped the lizard in the living room and batted him between her paws a bit. He ran away and she turned round and round looking for him, stepping on his head with her back paw in the process.
I yelled for Tad to please remove the lizard from my house, before his tail fell off and became another lizard or whatever.
Slightly bruised but still quite alive, the lizard went back to our patio furniture, where he hits on female lizards to this day.
How Toby Spent His Spring Break Vacation
When he wasn't eating, Toby hid under the bed. No, that's not true. Sometimes, he came out to be petted on my bed, and then he sat on my head a couple of times. He tried to get petted on the couch, but being out in public in the daytime was just too frightening.
That's about all I can tell y'all now. Except for the following:
I want to write more, but I can't get my mind straight. I do have at least 3 things to tell y'all, the first of which is my thoughts on Gong Li. But I have to prepare myself mentally before that can happen. I have to get back into the routine. Maybe tomorrow.
I'm thinking about taking the bus to work every day, at least until gas gets cheaper again. My calculations say that it'll save me about $80 a month. It would save more if it didn't cost three damned dollars to ride our park-n-ride. How sad, that $6 per day would still save me money.
My boyfriend (fiance) took half the week off so he could vacation with me, a little, and he's so sad about having to return to work tomorrow. I don't want to go back, either, but he really is kind of depressed about it. Poor guy.
The other day, he and I went on what was supposed to be a 3 mile walk at a local park. (Teresa B, you know which one.) And, instead, we got totally lost on the trails and ended up walking 8 miles. It was brutal. My butt still hurts. And yet I don't think that excursion negated all the calories we ate this week, unfortunately. Oh, well.
I got all my hair cut off a couple of weekends ago. I think I told y'all that, right? I didn't go to my regular stylist for that one because, gosh forgive me, but I didn't think she'd understand what kind of look I was going for. So I went to [chain salon that's supposed to be all awesome], and my hair came out cute but sort of uneven. You know?
So then, a few days ago, I went back to my regular stylist to get some new highlights. And she saw my hair, and I told her what happened, and she was like, "Let me just fix the ends for you."
But she said it like, "Let me just prove to you that you should've come to me, instead." And then she totally re-cut my hair, y'all! And then she razored it until I was like, "Um, it's okay if I don't look like Victoria Beckham." And then she straightened it, like she loves to do, and it did come out super cute... but then I tried to get a photo of it at home, to show y'all, and the photo made me look like a lazy-eyed Liza Minelli. (Sometimes I look like that, at certain angles. Can't help it.)
And... I don't know. I'll upload a picture if I get a cute one. Or maybe I'll just break down and upload the weird picture. Or maybe I'll finally realize that it's not that big a deal, either way, and that people's lives can continue without constantly updated pictures of my hair.
We went to Katy Mills Mall, and someone there had a sign that said, "Happy Easter and Holy Week Sale." And I thought that was weird, that they mentioned Holy Week like that. I mean, I get that suburban retailers in Texas sometimes get good results from pandering to Christians. But... Holy Week? What is that, like, "OMG, y'all, I got the cutest jeans on sale on the anniversary of the day that Jesus was crucified!"? I don't know, man.
We saw a chick get handcuffed for shoplifting at that mall, too. She got arrested on Good Friday, y'all. Saddest part? The store she stole from had a sign that said, "Nothing over $8.98." I'm guessing she stole from Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten line, because she simply didn't consider it cheap enough.
Okay, that's all. More later. Hope y'all had good Easters, or at least good Easter candies, or at least found nice things to buy or steal sometime around the time that some people commemorate some kind of thing. 7:46 PM # (6) comments
Sunday, March 09, 2008
status update1. I cut off my hair. It's shorter than heck. Chin length with long bangs. I'm glad. I'm getting too old for long hair, I think. My boyfriend doesn't think so, but he doesn't have to be a 36-year-old woman with three kids, a conservative job, and razored-to-hell long hair. So I cut it. I took in a picture of Number 6 from Battlestar Galactica, and they cut my hair, and now I look like a mom. But I am a mom, so I'm good. (I might go solid blonde next, though. Screw it -- it's only hair, right?)
2. Toby and Starbuck are inseparable now, just like I knew they eventually would be. I would tell y'all cute stories about them now, but Toby just got on my lap and he smells like vomit, so I'm not in the mood, all of a sudden. I swear: Toby is a dog, not a cat. He always needs a bath.
3. Finally got my signed copy of Rob's book, so I'm reading it in quick bursts while I ride in the car and etc. It's very good. It inspires at least one laugh or one lip tremble per page. He had a nice turn-out at his Houston reading, and he cracked us up, despite the not-quite-hilarious subject. Congratulations, Rob!
4. Uh... seems like I had at least five list items to tell y'all...
Oh, I'm getting ready to take a vacation. From my day job and my kids, for a week, coinciding with Spring Break. Guess what I'm gonna do on my vacation? Work my freaking ass off. I have a novel to finish.
5. Uh... Send me your email address if you want my publisher to send you a coupon for 20% my Growing Up with Tamales kids' book. If you're already on the mailing list, I've taken the liberty of putting you on that list. :) But they promised not to spam y'all with other stuff, so don't be sad.
That's it. More later. Busy, busy day tomorrow. Busy, busy life. 9:03 PM # (4) comments
Thursday, February 21, 2008
quickI typed this in an email to my boyfriend (fiance) and decided to paste it here, too, so y'all know:
I feel, lately, like most of the problems around me are caused by unhappy people looking to make others unhappy. I want to be left alone so I can do my work and have a good life.
I put a couple of new pics on the Flickr page, including my new author photo and a pic of Toby and me. New author photo is also on the About page, for those who are interested in seeing it but don't want to click all the way over to Flickr.
weight yammering
I'm a little bit annoyed by the fact that I've been losing and gaining the same five pounds since February 1. I want to tell people "I've lost 40 pounds!" but then that number changes back to 35. Back and forth, back and forth. I read a comment on a blog the other day (maybe Big Fat Deal?) where someone said, "The only way she was able to maintain that weight was by eating only 1200 calories a day and exercising for 90 minutes every night!!" And I thought, "Damn." Because that's what I'm doing every day, and it's not working. I'm stuck here at this pants size that I don't want to be.
My number one motivation here is becoming a pants size that is readily available in all non-plus-size, non-vanity-sized retail clothing stores. I'll just say it: Size 12. And it's not happening. And it's starting to piss me off. Personally, I don't think 90 minutes of exercise per day is a lot, especially if you spend most of your day sitting at a desk or in your car. It's not like we live in genteel Victorian England, where everyone has a huge freaking garden to take an hour-long walk after every meal. So I don't feel like it's unreasonable that I might have to exercise even more. But I do feel like I either have time to lose weight, or time to, say, write a novel. But not both. Not with an eight-hour day job and 2 hour roundtrip commute. Very, very annoying.
(Note: The above paragraphs are about me, not about you. I want to be size 12, and that's my business. My desire to be size 12 has nothing to do with your body, my opinion of your body, or American society's potential, personal hatred of you. FYI. So don't start, if you're thinking of starting down that road.)
Hardcore judgmental thoughts, here. Avert your eyes if you can't take it.
See... I hate lookism, and so I avoid people who judge others only by their looks. But, at the same time, I can't stand it when people go around presupposing that everyone is discriminating against them or, basically, that any woman thinner/prettier than them must be an evil bitch. It goes both ways, you know?
A while back, I found some chick's weight-loss blog. (I will never recall the URL and I'm about to hate on this chick, so I wouldn't post it in any case.) This woman said she'd just lost some enormous amount of weight, okay? And she had several entries about how it now disgusts her to see fat people on the subway. She said she especially hates to watch them eat. And that's her right, I suppose. You could maybe say her reaction was actually self-hatred and fear of becoming fat again. But still, I thought, "Well, you're a miserable, insecure, lookist bitch, and that's why you'll never be happy, no matter what you do."
A while back, that old Trainwrecks site used to link to a Livejournal group for "hot" fat chicks. Fat chicks who thought themselves pretty would submit a picture to the group, and then the group -- in plain sight, online -- would critique the hell out of the photo and vote on whether the submitter was "hot" enough to join their little clique. I saw that and thought, "I bet a million dollars half these chicks go to fat-activist sites and complain about lookism on a regular basis."
This feeling has been boiling inside me for a while, and I've resisted posting it because it's kind of sexist, but now I can't stand it anymore and I have to say: Insecure women are a major force of evil in our country. Or, at least, a major source of annoyance to me, personally.
I mean, insecure men are plentiful and annoying, too. But there are whole industries built on the masses of insecure women who believe that their only value is in being pretty, and that, if they can't be prettiest, they can at least judge less pretty women and hate prettier women. And then, of course, they give stupid men the excuse to walk around labelling all women catty bitches.
Disclaimer: I'm sure I used to be one of these insecure women, probably. And it's only because I'm getting older that I have so little patience for that sort of thing today. (Maybe my reaction is secretly self-hatred and a fear of becoming insecure again? Heh.) But I'm not the only one who's tired of insecure women. It seems like, in each of my social groups, most of the women are working, buying cars and houses, starting families... and then there's that one woman who's constantly comparing her looks to everyone else's and worrying whether men think she's hot. And the rest of us are like, "Jesus, bitch, can you please shut up about that stupid, boring crap?" You know? Like:
Jane: OMG, you guys, my mom has been really ill lately. She's getting worse.
Sharon: Oh, no. That sucks. What are you going to do?
Jane: I don't know. My brother and I are meeting tonight to discuss our options. She might have to move in with John and me.
Cindy: Wow, that sucks. Guess what, you guys! I lost six more pounds! So now I weigh even less than you, Jane! And guess what else. That guy at Starbucks? Totally checked me out again. I think it was my new bra. I can't wait for Todd to find out -- he's gonna be so jealous!
Jane and Sharon: [stony silence]
Cindy: So, you guys, why don't we go to that Starbucks, and then go shopping for smaller jeans? We never hang out anymore. You guys never call me anymore. Why is that? Is it because I'm thinner than you now?
Coming down now.
Okay. Sorry I had to talk all loud like that. I just feel like, lately, I'm trying to vent these feelings in a subtle way, but I'm not being very clear, and then people are like, "What? She said on her blog that pretty women don't deserve to live on our planet? She's a jerk, then! A fat, ugly jerk whose boyfriend didn't buy her anything for Valentine's Day!" So I wanted to clarify. Hope I did.
Later, taters. 5:50 AM # (15) comments
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Toby updateToby spent the night in my oldest son's room. Starbuck spent the night in the living room, instead of on my bed like she normally does. Was she guarding the whole house from Toby? I don't know. After I woke up, she went into my room, I guess. Moments later, Toby bounded in to say good morning. I petted him. Then I heard this ominous, "Er-r-r-r-r... ERR-R-R-R!" from under the bed. "Starbuck! Be nice!" I yelled.
Poor Toby, after apparently holding it all night, finally went to the bathroom... in one of our houseplants. "No-o-o!" I cried, scaring him across the house. But then he let me carry him back into the hall and show him the real litter box. I'd shown it to him yesterday, but neglected to scratch his paws in it, like you're supposed to. So I did his paws, and he made this face like, "Oh. That's why you showed me this box yesterday. Okay."
Poor thing.
I hope that, once the house is emptied of humans, Starbuck will get bored enough to be a good hostess. Maybe she'll give Toby a tour and let him share a seat next to her at the Bastard-Squirrel-Watching Window.
Avon: What's up with it?
At my work, in the room called Ladies, there's a new Avon catalog with something weird on the back. It says, "Rich, creamy goodness! Moisturizing body yogurt!" And it shows pastel, fruit-scented lotions in yogurt-carton-like containers, with a spoon dipping into one of them.
Isn't that kind of disgusting? Body yogurt? Not only does it sound like smearing food on your body, which is a practice best left to seventies porn, in my opinion, but it also carries the vague connotation of... I don't know. A cure for yeast infections or something? Okay, I'm sorry I said that. But I had to. It was there, in the back of my mind. I'm just not turned on to the body yogurt idea.
Plus, the ad copy: "Rich, creamy goodness." Doesn't that sound like early 2000s blogspeak? Like a phrase a blogger would use facetiously, on a blog called something like, "A Blog of One's Own" or "Randomized Thoughts," to describe Josh Hartnett in a shirtless scene?
You'll be glad to know that I finally found a pair of brown boots.
And I got them on outrageous discount, 65% off. I want to wear them every day. I'm wearing them today, in fact, with a dress they probably don't go with. They look sort of like galoshes with this dress. But I don't care.
Here they are. They look just like that, but darker. That picture is way bright/reddish on my monitor, for some reason.
And, normally I wouldn't link to something I bought in that way, but I really wanted you to see the boots, because I've been talking about looking for brown boots on this blog for, what? Nine thousand years now? And I know y'all have probably been worried about it. It's probably kept y'all up at night, your concern regarding my boot search... So I just wanted you to know you can lay the matter to rest now.
rich people annoyingness
There are certain web sites in this world on which the commenters annoy me with their snobbery. It's usually on sites about fashion or New York that a certain breed of blogsnob will show up and hate on people who buy cheap clothing. They'll be like, "Oh my god, I wouldn't be caught dead in Old Navy. People who shop at Kohl's should kill themselves. I use Banana Republic silk blouses to wipe my nose. I can't touch, share oxygen with, or live in the bourrough of anyone who browses the Barney's clearance racks."
And I always think, "Yeah, right." Who are these people, who brag about their wealth and discriminating taste anonymously, in someone else's blog comments? Who are they supposed to be fooling? Who would care, besides the other faux rich people commenting anonymously?
Then again, maybe they aren't fake. Unfortunately, I've met some rich people in real life who really do believe that either:
a) they're smart for being rich and everyone else is stupid for not being rich, or
b) they're better than everyone else, as evidenced by the fact that they were born rich.
Maybe people who were born rich are better than everyone else (or at least they were, in a past life). But I don't think so. And I'm not just saying that because I was born poor.
Some people think that we're all the same -- that no one is better than anyone else. I don't believe that, either.
I think that being a good person (good person, better person, best person) is based on your behavior. We can't all be born rich, smart, or attractive, but most of us can make the choice to be good -- to treat others as we'd like to be treated -- or to be assholes. And that's the basis on which I set a person's value, in my mind.
All that sounds super elementary and not worth discussing, I know. But I swear to gosh, I really do talk to people on a daily basis who believe that being born with money makes someone a more valuable person. Or that pretty people are more valuable. Or that smart people are. To each their own, I guess. But I hate it when people apply that value system to me. I hate it when someone quite obviously decides that I'm good enough to talk to because they find me attractive enough, or because I've published a book, or because I've pulled myself up by the bootstraps. Don't talk to me if that's why you're talking to me. Don't talk to me if you're an asshole.
(I know some of y'all reading this blog are rich, and some of you are Republicans, and that it sometimes seems like I hate rich people and Republicans. I know this because y'all write to me and say, "I know you hate rich Republicans, but I am one and I still like your blog." I don't hate rich people or Republicans! I know a lot of decent people of both persuasions, and I wouldn't judge y'all on that, alone. :) )
And that ends my rant for today. Come back next time for another petty, judgmental, evil rant.
overtraining
A while back, I was on this here blog pretending that I might take up jogging, and my e-buddy Mike gave me some advice. He said, "Don't overtrain." And he cited an example of his own overzealous exercise and self-injury.
I thought of Mike the other day when I was trying to break through my weight-loss plateau. I'd already walked a couple of miles that day and done a half-hour routine with Gilad. And I was so annoyed at not having lost any more weight, I decided to do some cardio an hour before bed.
And I pulled a muscle in my lower back, and Mike's words floated above my head like the Ghost of Overzealous Workouts Past.
And now my back hurts, and I can hardly exercise at all. And I've only lost 2 lbs this month, when I should have lost 5. And now I just have to eat less, I guess, if I want to meet my goal, which is to lose 20 pounds total by May 1.
If I can't meet that goal, I won't hate myself or anything. But it will be a little disappointing, and it'll set back my plans and my time table for deciding on a Halloween costume. And etc.
But, if all that turns out to be the least of my problems, then I'll be doing pretty well and I'll be relieved. :)
Labels: cats, materialism, vanity, venting
5:30 AM # (7) commentsThursday, January 17, 2008
Oh, here's a good cliched post topic -- New Year's resolutions!1. Write a bunch of stuff.
I have so much stuff to write, I feel guilty sitting here writing this blog entry. I have so much stuff I'm contractually obliged to write this year, I'm probably going to use up all my vacation time and floating holiday writing it. And having so much stuff to write? Is a good thing. Don't think I'm forgetting that.
2. Make a bunch of money. Or, if that's not possible, save a bunch of money.
I'm not going to say anything bitter about the fact that all the money I would have made this year is already allotted to making up for lost child support. I mean, I already made a lot of money for the year, but it wasn't enough. Bad Luck seems to follow me around, watching my mailbox for checks.
Then again -- better to have bad luck when you have the checks than when you don't, right? Right. In the mean time, I am in the midst of a budgetary resolution to never eat out again. As you might imagine, it's making me sad.
O O
___
3. Lose 20 more pounds. (WARNING: Boring weight talk to follow.)
Science has left me upon a plateau. Now that I've lost 35 pounds through the magic of physics, I can no longer lose weight at the same rate (2 lbs per week) unless I subsist on 1100 calories per day. Which is 100 fewer than the recommended allowance for anyone, fat or thin. And about 300 fewer than a hypoglycemic chick who really loves to eat would recommend for herself.
Subsisting on 1100 calories a day would be doable if I ate 1400 per day, then burned off 300 of that with exercise. Burning off 300 would take about an hour and a half. Maybe less if I did it via DDR. ("Difficult" level = hardcore cardio.) And all that would be incredibly plausible if I didn't spend most of my day sitting, either at a desk or in my car. I spend about 11 hours a day sitting down, if you include my long-ass commute. Sad, huh?
I'm trying to eat as few calories as I can stand, and burn as many calories as I can squeeze into my sedentary day. But I might have to resign myself to losing the weight more slowly than 2 lbs per week. My goal is to lose five pounds a month, totalling 20 pounds by May 1. Guess how much weight I've lost so far!
Half a pound. Bleh.
If I do meet this goal, I might give myself two or three months to rest, then lose 20 more. Why not? That would make me only 10 pounds overweight, by Dept of Health standards, and yet thinner than I've been since I was 18 years old. (Current goal would make me thinner than I've been since 19 years old. Freshman Fifty much? :) ) (<-- That emoticon has a double chin.)
4. Try not to equate money or career success with happiness.
Despite resolutions numbers 1 and 2. No, seriously. I mean, I want to write more and make more money, but without letting my happiness depend on those goals. Should be easy! Right? Right??
5. Work on that whole self-promotion... bleh
Promote myself as an author without feeling like a show-off or a sell-out. Yeah. I remember. I'm gonna do that. Okay.
6. Do more art.
That goes with being happy.
And that's it. Okay. Aren't you glad you asked? What? You didn't ask? Oh. Well... Don't read this entry, then.
Doh. Too late! Too bad for you.
:)
Labels: materialism, vanity, writing
12:11 PM # (5) commentsMonday, December 03, 2007
A PlainclotheshorseSometimes I want to tell y'all what I find at the thrift stores, and maybe post pictures of my finds, but then I don't, because I've realized that I like pretty boring clothes.
Today, for instance, I am wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a fuchsia silk cardigan ($1.91 with orange tag markdown). And black loafers. And no jewelry, because I forgot it. And that's pretty much about as exciting as my wardrobe gets, unless I bust out a dress or the knee-high boots or something.
The other day I found a brand new pair of brown, unembellished, Unlisted loafers at my second-favorite thrift store, for $6.97. I found one of them on the floor, and I searched the store until I found its mate. And I was so ecstatically happy. "I should take a picture of these and put them on my Flickr page!" I said to myself. Then I realized how underwhelming a picture of brown loafers would be.
Oh, well. I'm still happy about them.
But, if you'd like to see something semi-exciting, go on over to my Flickr page and see that paintings I did to go above my fireplace.
The YouTubes and the CSSes and the BloggerWriters and the InterWebs
I feel kind of sad about the fact that I haven't posted anything on YouTube yet. I feel un-Web-pioneer-y. I even have stuff to post -- two or three readings and lectures I did that people were kind enough to videotape for me and then make DVDs for my use, to post on YouTube as I'd promised I would. And I haven't yet done it. I even have the video editing software on my computer. I just haven't had time to get it done.
Other information highway merge lanes I haven't had time to drive on:
- podcasting with the MP3s I have of myself reading and yakking at radio show hosts
- putting something about my books on the domain GwendolynZepeda.com
- getting on any writer-y sites and telling people I'm a writer
- updating the design of this here blog
How do y'all web mavens have time to do all this stuff? Is it because you do it as a career? Is it because you don't have 28 kids, like I do? Are you doing it at your day jobs? Are you tricking high school students into being your web content interns? Help me, ObiWanKenobis. Tell me your secrets.
It just takes time, I guess. Maybe I can do something on the web, next time I feel like painting a bunch of birds and hanging them up above my fireplace.
Weekend Adventure: Farmers' Market
One of my kid's friends spent the weekend with us, which was all the excuse we needed to conduct weekend adventures. We dragged that little boy to the Asian grocery store to see the live frogs and purchase cha siu for the fried-rice feast my boyfriend later cooked. We dragged him to a park that we'd never seen before, and that park ended up having bison and pigs and emus, oh my! We sought out a new (to us) carniceria, next door to our second favorite panaderia and ate a fabulously traditional Mexican Sunday breakfast of tacos, pastry, and insanely spicy hot sauce.
After we dropped the boy off at his home, my boyfriend dropped me off at my favorite thrift store for a few hours, which is always a very exciting adventure, for me at least. (Three skirts in gray and taupe! A light blue button-down!) Then we reconvened at Empire, which is the best coffee house in Houston.
(Please don't write and tell me that Brazil or Dietrich's are the best. They aren't. Empire is. Sorry.) (Just kidding. Feel free to tell me which is your fave, and why. I always want to know y'all's fave restaurants in Houston, okay?)
Best of all, though: We went to the farmers' market on Airline, which neither Tad nor I had been to since we were children. The Airline farmers' market is, as my youngest son put it, a "fleamarket of food." Their restrooms are nastier than those of the nightclub #s. But still -- they have beautiful fruits, vegetables, spices, and herbs for dirt cheap. We're going back again very soon. Every single week for the rest of our lives, maybe.
I've been meaning to tell y'all this for weeks now...
I no longer like Billy Joel's music.
You know why? Because, the other day, I heard a song of his I hadn't heard since I was a kid with snot running down my nose and no sense of what was happening in the world. That song was "Big Shot."
Here is the chorus and two verses of the song:
Because you had to be a big shot, didn't you
You had to open up your mouth
You had to be a big shot, didn't you
All your friends were so knocked out
You had to have the last word, last night
You know what everything's about
You and to have a white hot spotlight
You had to be a big shot last night
They were all impressed with your Halston dress
And the people you knew at Elaine's
And the story of your latest success
Kept 'em so entertained
But now you just can't remember
All the things you said
And you're not sure you want to know
I'll give you one hint, honey
You sure did put on a show
Well, it's no big sin to stick your two cents in
If you know when to leave it alone
But you went over the line
You couldn't see it was time to go home
What the hell is this guy's deal? The narrator of this song is mad at some chick because... why? Because she talked a lot? Because her friends were "knocked out" and "entertained" by her stories? Because she wore an expensive dress?
Maybe I'm just reading way too much into it (as I will sometimes do with lyrics when I'm in my van, listening to the radio during my 1.25 hour commute), but it sounds like the narrator just can't hang with women getting attention. Maybe attention that he feels is rightfully his?
Read those lyrics, then consider the lyrics to "Uptown Girl," which Mr. Joel presumably wrote later:
Uptown girl
She's been living in her uptown world
I bet she's never had a backstreet guy
I bet her momma never told her why
Uptown girl
You know I can't afford to buy her pearls
But maybe someday when my ship comes in
She'll understand what kind of guy I've been
And then I'll win
Watch out, uptown girl! Don't do it! Don't marry this backstreet guy, because every time you want to have a little fun with your friends or dress up a little or tell anyone about your accomplishments, he'll ridicule you and your white-bread world. Then, years later, after he's erroded your self esteem, the two of you will divorce and then he'll replace you with a younger woman too meek to hold her own on a cooking contest show!
Just kidding. Heh. I'm sure Billy Joel is a very nice person, and his song narrators are no reflection of his own views on women. I just like to listen to music and make up funny little stories for myself when I'm alone in my van.
When I was a child, I memorized lyrics without thinking about them. I also liked Billy Joel and hated Bob Seeger.
But now that I'm older, I can't help but think about lyrics. Do I want to listen to songs that say "Ha, ha, you rich bitch, I did donuts on your lawn with my motorcycle," or lyrics that say "I had sex with a rich woman in Hollywood and it was awesome, and now I'm an old, worn-out cliche of a rock star and I only have myself to blame"?
Or do I want to go back to my old favorite, with lyrics that say "It seems like we really hate women, but then again, we did steal most of this music from black musicians nowhere near as famous as us"? Now that Led Zeppelin's having a little comeback, I mean.
Silverfish, silverfish! It's Christmas time in the city!
I decorated our Christmas tree (Douglas fir, $17 at Lowe's with $10-off coupon) last night.
I'm not even going to tell y'all about the all-new holiday trauma tradition we started, which involved the whole family and the meticulous slaughtering of the silverfish that have been breeding in our garage, in the boxes that came over from our apartment more than a year ago, which contained all our Christmas ornaments and decorations.
I'm not even going to tell you about it.
Suffice it to say that tree is up, the garage is clear, and my children will grow up with beautiful holiday memories -- the strains of "Deck the Halls" intertwined with the dulcet tones of their mommy's voice, screaming, "There's one! KILL IT!" and "Bang it on the floor until they all fall out!" and "Because I gave birth to you, that's why!"
Beautiful. Priceless. You're welcome, kids. I love you, too.
Labels: Christmas, domestic, insects, pop culture, psychobabble, thrifting, vanity
6:04 AM # (14) commentsSaturday, November 24, 2007
reminder of what I have2007 has been a disappointing year for me, for various reasons beyond my control. A year of rejections, failures, unexpected expenses and medical dramas. I'm calling it, in my mind, a year of learning experiences and character strengthening.
The one thing I have been able to control is my own body--namely, how much I eat and how much I exercise. (And I know that's the seed of anorexia: focusing on controlling your own body when you feel powerless to control anything else. But don't worry; I'm very, very far from that.) So I've failed at increasing my income this year, but I succeeded at decreasing my weight.
So I need new clothes. And I'm broke. And I have a whole wardrobe of clothing that doesn't fit me anymore. So I thought I'd have a garage sale. But I couldn't, because my neighborhood association won't let us. And no one else I knew could get it together to have one... and selling clothes on eBay or Craigslist is too much work for too little money... But I was hoarding these bags of too-big clothes, thinking I'd sell them one way or another and then use the money to buy new clothes.
And then, the other day, my friend Letty, who works for the local women's shelter, called me up. I was walking around the clearance dress racks at Macy's when she called, in fact. She said, "Do you still have those clothes that are too big for you?"
I said yes. She said, "Would you consider donating them to the shelter? They just called me and said they desperately need clothes in that size."
I said uh, yeah, I guess, maybe. She said, "You don't have to give them all of it. They just really need work clothes and underwear."
I said, "Underwear? Y'all take underwear? I was just gonna throw mine away. I never donate underwear because that's kind of weird, you know? I mean, who wants old underwear?"
She said, "Well, sometimes women who come to the shelter have just been raped. So their underwear gets cut off of them when they're being examined. And, you know, we have clothes to give them, but we don't always have underwear--especially in the bigger sizes. So, you know, they just come to us..."
And I said okay, and I went home and got all the clothes together. And I went through my underwear drawer and pulled out the stuff that was fit to give away, and I tried not to think about how horrible it would be to have your underwear cut off, and then to move to a new place, full of strangers, with borrowed clothes and no underwear on your body. Or to try to start a new life with nothing but borrowed clothes, or literally no clothes at all. Not a wardrobe full of things that are a little too big, not a closet full of things you're a little bit tired of, but literally nothing.
Houston Area Women's Shelter needs larger sized work clothing and underwear, y'all. Especially sizes 20 and up. And winter coats. And toilettries. And diapers. And everything, all this stuff we take for granted.
winter storage
I gave Letty the clothes and then we had lunch, and we talked about a lot of stuff. I've known Letty since Kindergarten, and we don't have lunch as often as we should, but when we do, we always end up discussing massive things. Because we are massive-issue-discussing friends. Which is good. It unblocks our minds.
One of the things we talked about was fear of poverty versus the ennui of middle class existence. Most people educated in America know of middle class ennui, because we read about it. It's like, the prevailing experience of our literary canon, right? So I knew about it, but I didn't really understand it until I became middle class.
I just bought a house, and Letty's agonizing over whether or not to buy a house, and we both see now what it is--a huge financial commitment to a lifestyle you're not sure you want to live for the life of your mortgage. And, if you fail (foreclose), then you aren't just a failure--you're a failure with worthless credit. Marked for life.
And Letty's been wanting to go to grad school, but says she's afraid to be broke. AKA poor. (I hope she doesn't mind me telling you this. Letty, tell me if you mind and I'll delete.)
Assuming everyone reading this has a little money, and therefore access to a computer and time to read this entry: Did you grow up poor? If so, then you know what it means to be afraid of returning to poverty. Did you grow up rich or middle class? If so, know that all your friends who grew up poor and scratched their way up are secretly, desperately afraid to turn poor again.
So I understood what Letty was saying, on the house count and on the grad school count. And I told her that, even though having a house makes me completely broke (AKA land-poor), I don't mind because this time, I'm controlling my poverty. This time, I look at my budget and make conscious decisions. There's no shame in being broke--in eating ramen noodles, buying thrift store clothes--if I've made the decision to do so in order to hold on to my house. And, if I decide to sell my house and go back to renting, it'll be a slight failure, but again, something I controlled.
So... yeah.
It's winter now in Houston, finally. And it's the holidays. That means that, all over town, people who grew up poor are experiencing PTSD, and coping with it in various ways. Turning the heat up high. Not turning the heat up at all. Spending lots of money at the mall. Not spending money at all. Clinging to family. Avoiding family. Reliving old habits and trying to make sense of them. Creating new habits and trying to move on.
I turned up our heat a little today, because I think it's worth paying to be warm. I've been taking things out of storage--things people gave me that were kind of a pain to store all summer when we lived in an apartment. Tea pot. Coffee press. Warm slippers. Sweaters and coats.
And you know what? I'm glad I have these things, and people who love me enough to give them. And I'm especially glad that I have this little snail-shell house. Meaning it's heavy on my back, but it holds all the things that we need. In all senses of those words.
DJ Drama
Last night we went to local club Rich's to see Felix da Housecat. Because he always puts on a good show, and Rich's is our favorite venue. And, guess what? Felix wasn't there. There was a hand-written sign on the register saying he was in the hospital, and that cover would be free, and that our pre-purchased tickets would be good for when Felix rescheduled.
I hope he isn't really hospital-worthy sick. I hope he just felt like flaking. But if he's really sick, I hope he gets well soon.
The opening act DJs did their best to make it up to us. They did a pretty good job.
After Rich's, we went to South Beach. South Beach is one of Houston's premier gay clubs. The reason we go there is JD Arnold. JD Arnold is, pretty much, Houston's best DJ. He used to work at Rich's for years and years and years. Then he went to South Beach (which is, incidentally, the phoenix risen from the literal ashes of hate-crime-ruined Heaven, as some of you will remember).
And then, JD Arnold left South Beach, apparently. Recently, I think. Because he was there last time we went, several months ago, and now he's not.
"What happened to JD Arnold?" I asked the door guys.
"Who?" they said. "Who is that?"
"Hey, what happened to JD Arnold?" I asked a bartender who was running around.
"Who?" he said, just like the caterpillar with the hookah in Alice in Wonderland.
A bunch of employees gathered together, then, and complained about some customer hitting on or failing to hit upon one of their number. I was kind of tipsy, so I said it again. "Hey, you guys, what happened to JD Arnold?"
They looked at each other, made faces, rolled eyes, and said in a haughty chorus, "Who?"
Then I got it. "Y'all are mad at him, aren't you? Y'all are, like, never saying his name in this club again?" They lifted eyebrows and scattered like feathers on the wind.
I still don't know what happened. South Beach hasn't updated their web site, either.
Last month we went to see DJ Sasha at Bar Rio. I know none of y'all listen to the music I listen to, and y'all probably just mentally blip over my long descriptions of the DJ shows. But, if you've read this far, know that in my fantasies of a post-lottery-winning wedding, I'm wearing a fuchsia silk cheongsam with embroidered peonies, and Sasha is DJing our reception. Got me?
A man called Spooky opened up that night, and he did very well. He's an older guy, looks like an extra on a Lord of the Rings set, in t-shirt and jeans. Not ranking on his looks at all--just saying he didn't look like you might expect a DJ to look. But he played like a mofo, so we loved him with all our hearts, right at that moment.
Then Sasha came out, and I was so, so excited, and I was right up there in the front where I could breathe his air...
... and he played this set that he later described as minimalist (in response to complaints, I think), but which I would describe as easy-listening techno. And I was sad, and disappointed. And I respect that he wants to try new stuff, and that he may be chilling out as he gets older, but, dude...
don't come to a dance club and play undanceable music.
Now I'm thinking JD Arnold will have to play at my wedding. If anyone can find him. If he hasn't been run out of Houston by the local velvet mafia, I mean.
crafting, baby
I painted a bunch of paintings--commercial interior dec stuff like they teach you to do on Trading Spaces--and they came out nice, and I'm happy. And it felt good to make stuff off the top of my head, with no pressure.
Try some crafting today. Start a holiday tradition. Put your dinette set in storage and make your family a crafting room. Let the cat help by stepping all over your drying canvases. (Because, of course, mine did. Thanks, Starbuck!)
Okay, that's all. More later. Thanks for listening.
Labels: Christmas, domestic, fantasies, Houston, Letty, psychobabble, vanity, venting
3:35 PM # (17) commentsMonday, November 19, 2007
Gourds!We went to an HEB in the middle of nowhere the other day. (HEB is a big ol' grocery chain in Texas.) Out in front of the store, they had crates of bagged gourds and mini pumpkins for $1.50 per bag, surrounded by desperate fruit flies. So I bought three bags of gourds. Even though it's almost too late for harvest decorations, I bought them, figuring I could paint them silver and gold and use them for Martha Stewart-y xmas decorations.
Last night I cut open the bags and sorted through all the mixed gourds, picking out the best ones to display on the mantel. And, oh my god, I love mini gourds so much. I wanted to hug and kiss each one. They're so cute and harvesty. And now I don't want to paint them, because they're so beautiful just the way they are. I want to keep them forever. I want them to be my pets.
blipping over Thanksgiving
So the kids are going to their dad's for Thanksgiving, and we're not even cooking turkey--we're going to a Chinese restaurant. So, in a way, I feel like Thanksgiving doesn't exist and therefore I'm already planning for Christmas.
And it kind of makes me sad, to skip a holiday like that. But then again, I'm so glad to have the kids for Christmas this year, I'll gladly skip Thanksgiving in exchange for that.
vanity update
I got my hair cut, but didn't have it all cut off, like I threatened. They layered the hell out of it, but left the back long. While Tina hacked away, I noted the clear line of demarcation between my old color and my roots. So I went home later and dyed my hair Navajo Bronze, aka "light caramel brown," and it came out dark auburn instead, and it looks nice and I like it.
And we got a new scale, and I've lost 35 pounds total in the past 6 months. And my goal is to lose 20 more, and I'm giving myself 6 more months to do that. So... yeah. Wish me luck.
My boyfriend can cook like a mofo.
The other day we were ambling around the grocery store, trying to decide what to make for dinner. My boyfriend says, "How about chicken wings?" And I said, "You mean like buffalo wings? Eh."
And he made us baked chicken wings, with salt and pepper and garlic, and DAMN they were good. My boyfriend is the master of cooking stuff with just salt, pepper, garlic, and making whatever it is taste like a $29 entree.
My night elf, she is sad.
My World of Warcraft character, Xora, has been stuck on Level 32 for the past nine months. I'm on this quest where I have to go into a haunted house and kill a bunch of zombies. Whenever I log on, no one else is playing that quest so no one can help me out. So I'll go into the haunted house and kill a few zombies, until the biggest zombie kills me, and then I'll spend a while bringing my character back to life, and then I get tired and log off.
I told my kids that, unless they wanted to get grounded, at least one of them was going to have to get online with me and help my character level up.
"I can just play your character for you until you're like, Level 35," said my youngest, who is 10.
"I don't want someone else to play it for me!" I whined. "I want to level up by myself!"
"Fine," said my oldest. "I'll help you the weekend after next, if I have time."
It's that time of year, when the world needs new clothes.
My boyfriend Tad wanted to look at trenchcoats, even though he already owns at least two. But we finally had a cold front, and the temperature set off that trenchcoat impulse within him.
So we went to the Galleria, which is where a few rich people go to shop, and where zillions of poor people go to watch them. We went into Neiman's and pretended we could afford it. We went to Saks 5th and pretended we were classy enough to lift our noses at the mannequins. We went to the new Barney's and sniffed that it was nothing like the one in New York. We peered into the window of Fendi and disagreed over the spotlighted purse. (I was for, Tad was against.) We went to Club Monaco and enjoyed the music. We went to Nordstrom and left in a huff over the fact that there were no more BCBG sweater dresses in size XL. (Which was good, since I couldn't afford one, anyway.)
Most importantly, we noted that fingerless knit gloves (solid or striped) were all the rage again, just like back in the eighties. We thought my 10-year-old son might like a pair. But the cheapest pair we found was $14 at Urban Outfitters, and that was too much.
We left the Galleria. The next day, we went to Target, where we purchased a set of two pairs of knit gloves--one black and one black and white stripes--for $1.49. We took them home and cut off the fingers with pinking shears. When my youngest son got home from Austin that night, we told him our Galleria adventures, then presented him with the knock-off gloves. He takes after us... I couldn't tell if he was more enchanted with the trendiness of them, or with the fact that we'd recreated the trend for so cheap.
Labels: Christmas, domestic, parenting, Thanksgiving, vanity, WOW
6:37 AM # (6) commentsFriday, November 16, 2007
Days of Our NPRI'm all wrapped up in the Pakistan drama as it's revealed to me each morning by NPR. This morning I made my boyfriend listen to it, and then we found out details that compelled me to look up these people's photographs online today. Because I'm a visual learner, and I need to see names spelled in order to remember them. Photos of their faces seal the deal.
President Gen. Pervez Musharraf is the current leader of Pakistan. George Bush & Co. have been sending him money to "help fight terror" or whatever. But Musharraf's term is about to end, and he's not eligible to run again. So guess what he did. He declared a state of emergency, put on his military uniform, and sent out soldiers to deal with the lawyers who immediately started protesting this BS.
Benizar Bhutto is Pakistan's former prime minister, and she's been calling for Musharraf to leave office. So he put her under house arrest. But she didn't stop talking. She just called a press conference from inside her house.
Imran Khan is the cricketeer-turned-politician who's trying to incite university protest, if he could only keep rival groups from kidnapping him before he even takes the mic.
Jemima Goldsmith is Imran Khan's British billionaire heiress ex-wife. That has nothing to do with what's happening in Pakistan, of course. But it's brilliant backstory, isn't it?
How long before this becomes a movie, or a miniseries at the very least?
I'm also following the French public-transit-worker strike, but haven't yet felt the need to do Google image search on that one.
Speaking of NPR and Sexiness
What is with people fantasizing about the voices on NPR? I read a piece on Nerve about Sarah Hepola getting off Ira Glass's voice, and now Salon or someone has voted him "sexiest man living" (as if that's not Clive Owen--please), and then of course Gawker got hold of that... and every time I read a post about this, everyone and their dog is chiming in with comments about which NPR peep they'd like to do.
And that is so bizarre to me. I mean, I'm not judging. I think it's totally cool to fantasize about the NPR people, if that's what works for you. Obviously, I enjoy reading people's comments about it. But I never, ever, ever thought of any of them in that way. Here are the three most personal thoughts I've ever had about NPR people:
1. "Renee Montagne sounds like she doesn't take crap from anybody. She seems kind of awesome."
2. "I guess it would be kind of cool to have Carl Kassell do my voicemail greeting."
3. "Why does the local weather guy on our NPR station have to say his name like that? So annoying."
And that's it. Their voices sound like newspeople voices to me. But other people are like, "Steve Inskeep sounds like he'd be considerate yet dirty in bed," or "Mee-chelle Norris is probably the best dominatrix ever. She sounds like a size 4, but with good stiletto feet and a light sprinking of freckles." And I'm like, "What? What the? Where are y'all getting this from?"
Please feel free to share your NPR sex fantasies in the comments, though. Please don't let me stop y'all from doing that.
I want to cut my hair.
I'm saying this now so that, when my boyfriend reads it four days from now, it can help break the news to him gently.
I kind of want to cut my hair. My hair's all long with layers now -- same cut I had when I was 15, and again when I was 22, and now I'm 35 and I think that's a little too old for this hair.
You know? I feel like I'm trying to be in a metal rock video, and those aren't even on MTV anymore. You know what I'm saying? I want a more coifed sort of thing, yet still leave it long or medium length. But I know my boyfriend will cry if I cut it. He won't cry where I can see him. No, he'll keep it secret, like a man. But still.
Last time I was this size, I had *really* short hair and it looked pretty decent, I thought. And I don't even want to go that short now. So I think it should be okay. I think it's safe for me to purchase a Hairstyle Guide magazine... 11:55 AM # (11) comments
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Extreme AnnoyanceYou aren't going to know what I mean if you don't know Houston streets, but I'm going to say this, anyway. There sure are a lot of stupid, rude people driving down Allen Parkway in the mornings lately. And in the River Oaks area, in general.
Stupid woman in the Lexus SUV with the bluebonnet license plate who lives in (or visits someone in) Allen Parkway condos: You almost killed me the other day, and you didn't even notice.
Rude people coming west down Memorial, then going left on Shepherd: Quit running the red light, assholes. Quit running the red, then filling up the intersection on the red, then having the nerve to honk at me when I'm trying to come east down Memorial and go right on Shepherd while I have the green freaking arrow. Who do you people think you are? Do you think that, because you're going into River Oaks, that makes you special? You're wrong.
People going south on Shepherd, turning left on Allen Parkway: That's a two-lane left turn. See the arrows on the signs? Stay in your lane, or don't throw the finger at people who honk at you to keep you from wrecking.
Stupid people driving Hummers or Tahoes while texting on your phones: Stay in your lanes, or else don't act all hurt when I honk at you for coming out of your lane and drifting toward my car.
There -- I feel better having typed all that. I know it won't keep me any safer, though. Unfortunately. Constant vigilance...
What Not to Pay a Lot For
Today I'm wearing a $3 sweater. It's fuchsia, 100% mercerized cotton, from Jones New York. Also, I'm wearing $8 pants -- black, lined, perfect fit -- the label of which was removed before I found them at the thrift store.
My shoes are heeled loafers from the Kohl's Junior section. I bought them on clearance, along with two other pairs, before I realized that Kohl's had a junior shoe section. It's where they put all the shoes with chunky heels, looks like. So, like... training heels? For teens who don't yet know how to walk in heels, but still want to? I think I'm the only one buying them, though.
Normally I don't wear heels with pants, because I don't care enough, but today I have to because my favorite black loafers -- flats -- have finally given out. They're broken in a way that I can no longer fix them. *Sighz!!1!!*
This is boring, isn't it? Let me sex it up for y'all, then.
You don't own me. Nor do you own my wardrobe.
I have this friend named Julio, and as his name implies, he is a latino male, and therefore he embodies certain stereotypes on a regular basis. (I'm sorry, latino men reading this, but y'all do. Y'all just do.)
Me: ... and I had to wear heels today, because those shoes I wear every day? Now have a big old hole in them.
Julio: [with knowing look] That's not why you're wearing heels.
Me: It's not?
Julio: Come on. Don't play dumb. What does your boyfriend say about it?
Me: Dude. Stop being latino.
You see what he's saying? No? Okay, here's another.
Julio: I like your ring.
Me: Thanks.
Julio: So, is your boyfriend going to pop the question?
Me: What?
Julio: Come on. Don't play dumb. We both know why you're wearing that ring on that finger. You're trying to tell him something. So, I guess all that stuff you said about not wanting to get married... You've changed your mind now, huh?
Me: I'm wearing my ring on this finger because I finally lost enough weight to wear it again, but I haven't lost enough weight to move it to my middle finger yet.
Julio: Oh.
Me: If I want to get married to my boyfriend, I'll just tell him that. With my words.
Julio: Okay, sorry. You don't have to get all mad.
You see what I'm saying now, about latinos? No?
Me: So I have to go meet with the underwriter after lunch.
Julio: Oh, I see. So that's why you're wearing a skirt today.
Me: What the hell? Julio, I'm wearing a skirt because all my pants were in the wash this morning.
Julio: Whatever. Look, you don't have to lie. I know how women are. If you have a crush on this underwriter guy, it's fine with me. But does your boyfriend know? He's gonna figure it out, when he sees that you're wearing a skirt.
Me: No, he isn't, because my boyfriend isn't a possessive, self-centered latino. He knows that I dress for myself and not for every man on earth! Dammit!
Julio: That's what you think. I have to hand it to your boyfriend -- he plays it pretty cool, and obviously that works for him. But all men are the same, and we all know how women are. He knows why you're wearing that skirt. You'd better watch yourself.
Me: Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you and every other latino man I know??!??1!1!
I'm not obsessed with my weight. I'm obsessed with the means of measuring it.
My scale finally broke all the way. For the past month or so, it's been telling me that I weigh 354.5 pounds. (That's not really the number, but I don't feel comfortable saying the real number online. So I'm telling y'all analogously, instead.)
One day last week, it told me that I weighed 351.5, which was my goal weight at the time, so I chose to believe my scale on that day. Then it went back to 354.5, and I chose not to believe it.
Now I should weigh 349.5, if I'm counting my calories right. (Which I am, because -- hello -- look how obsessive I am about the numbers, here.) But the scale won't tell me that I've lost two pounds this week. Instead, it obsessively sticks to 354.5.
This morning, it said 99999, then it said 298.5, then it said 351.5.
I guess it's time to get a new scale. I was all freaked out about that, starting from a new baseline, within a new system. Because, see, I don't care if the scale tells me my true weight -- I only care if it accurately gauges weight loss. But if I buy a new scale, the baseline will presumably change, and what will I do with that integer of difference?
Julio said, "That what standards are for." I said, "I have standards. What are you trying to say?" But he said he meant mathematical standards, and that I should put a filled 5-gallon jug of water on each scale, to gauge their difference, and then make my calculations from that. (He's good at math. He has a degree in it or something.)
I was happy. "What a good idea!" I said. "But I'll use a ten-pound dumbbell, instead."
So now all I have to do is buy a new scale.
"So is that why you're always in a bad mood lately? Because you're starving yourself in order to change the numbers on your broken scale?"
"No. Shut the hell up."
"What does your boyfriend say? Does he say you're always in a bad mood lately? Does he think it's worth the weight loss, to hear your bitching all the time?"
"SHUT THE HELL UP."
Turkey Day, or Pork Day, or Mussells in Black Bean Sauce Day
I'm not cooking for Thanksgiving, after all. What with all the stress of my ex-husband suing me for custody of our kids, I am simply unable. Plus, I don't have the kids for Thanksgiving this year, anyway, so I'd prefer to spend the four-day weekend loafing, not washing dishes.
We're going to a Chinese restaurant -- me, my boyfriend, and all my family members who've been displaced by my decision not to cook. My boyfriend wants to buy me lobster. I said I'd rather just eat pork. Or mussels. Or shrimp. Or tofu.
And I'm thankful. I give thanks for my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and especially my kids.
It looks, by the way, like this whole custody suit thing might work out better than I'd feared. Fingers crossed...
Whining Done
That's it. No more whining. Really, I'm relatively content now -- the bad stuff has been handled and potential good stuff looms on the horizon (always). So, I'm good. I'm thankful. I'm hopeful.
What are y'all doing for Thanksgiving, peeps? What kind of pies are you going to make? Will you send me a piece? A 100-calorie slice, please?
Labels: domestic, sexism, Thanksgiving, vanity, venting
6:08 AM # (11) commentsFriday, November 02, 2007
"You were destined for a pauper's grave."You wouldn't think listening to depressing songs would cheer a person up... or maybe you would. Maybe you know.
I am undergoing stress lately, so I listen to sad songs from the '90s and it cheers me up. Or maybe what I'm actually doing is listening to the sad '90s songs that got me through my last custody battle, and they are reminding me that I have nothing to fear in this recent custody battle. (Other than attorney's fees.) Because I'm still a good mom. In fact, I'm a better mom now than I was then. And Steven Malkmus and Ben Folds validate this feeling within.
speaking of
Okay, who knows what happened after Ben Folds Five recorded that song using Ben Folds' dad's answering machine message? What did his dad say? Was he amused? Embarrassed? Proud? I imagine he was proud, but I wish I could get an anecdote on that. Wikipedia has nothing. What, then, is the purpose of Wikipedia? I have to wonder, because it's sorely failed me in this regard.
domestix
Last night, as I read the kids their latest Harry Potter chapter, we got to the part of the book where Harry learns the astonishing, shocking, hardcore truth.
Usually my kids like to crack little jokes throughout the readings, or else poke each other and poke the cat, but this time everyone was listening, silent as heck, mouths agape.
"That's sorry," my middle son finally said, upon the conclusion of the chapter. His brothers agreed. What happened to Harry Potter was sorry.
I'm now gearing up -- gathering the emotional strength -- to read them the next chapter. AKA, the Tear Jerking Chapter. Y'all who read the book know which one I'm talking about.
I was telling my friend Joolio about this -- the Boy Who Lived and The Chapter That Awed -- and he asked if I purposely read the book in a dramatic way.
"Well, yeah," I said. "I try to do different voices and stuff. You know. You can't read aloud if you're gonna do it lame."
He said that he not only did voices, but he would also do dramatic hand gestures when reading to his kids. (Back before they turned to teenagers.) He said they'd tell him, "How did the monster do it, Dad?" and he'd have to do the gestures again. He did his monster gesture and I had to laugh.
But I wasn't laughing at his monster. I was laughing because it's kind of awesome to read your kids a story and have them enjoy it, and people who don't know that are missing out.
I said this before, I know. But I'm still thinking about it, because reading my kids Harry Potter is one of the best things going on in my life right now. Just like it was nice when we got into the van last night and the old '90s songs came on, and my middle son said, "I remember this song. Isn't this Ben Folds Five?" He's a musical genius, that one. He remembers every song he's ever heard.
weight-loss update
Don't think I'm being insecure, but I have something I need to say, to clarify.
Remember how I told y'all I lost 31 pounds? (It's 32 now.) Well, I meant that I lost the 32 pounds I've gained since 2003.
So, if you haven't seen me since 2003, you won't notice anything different.
That's all. Just wanted to disclose. Don't want anyone to think I'm misleading, here. For the record, I am still proud of this accomplishment. The other day I told my boyfriend, "Look. These are the pants I wore on our first date! They fit me again!"
He was like, "Oh, wow." But non-chalant. He's a very good boyfriend and therefore doesn't get too excited about the weight loss. I love him.
I was supposed to have lost 33 pounds by Wednesday, but I've only lost 32. Sighz. Okay, onward. 12:35 PM # (6) comments
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Right Now1. I am tired because tonight we did CathE's workout instead of Gilad's, and CathE is driven by demons. My triceps tremble and burn.
2. I am sad, tired, annoyed, resigned because my children's dad is trying, aGAIN, to sue me for custody of them. This time he claims that I neglect them -- that their physical and scholastic health is endangered every day that they spend with me. I strongly suspect that he's pulling this last ditch effort in the vain hopes that he'll get custody right before he has to show the court his latest 1040. (The one that shows that he just had a new house built, and that he still owns a big chunk of property that he's renting out to commercial tenants, and that he therefore cannot possibly make as little money as he's been claiming he does.) His most damning evidence against me: One of our children has plantar warts. ONE OF OUR CHILDREN HAS PLANTAR WARTS! I pray that the judge makes the right decision...
3. I am happy because I got my auto loan refinanced and will henceforth save 3% interest and $75 per month. Saving money! Yay! My Excel budget spreadsheet is happy. I fed it this arithmatic and it liked it.
4. I am (not as) stressed (as I should be) because I haven't yet begun to make my costume for Saturday night's costume party. I have all my materials, and I dyed the top half of my outfit. But I still need to make a skirt and wings. I need to take my sewing machine out of the closet. That's the hardest part, probably -- taking the sewing machine out and threading it. After that, it should roll like duck back water.
5. I am about to read Harry Potter to my kids. Remember the NYTimes book critic who said the last HP book sucked, and that his daughter was relieved when he gave up reading it to her half way through? I feel sorry for that guy and for his kid. Maybe he should take some lessons in how to read aloud. I get a lot of practice reading aloud, since I'm an author and I occasionally read to college kids and whatnot. College kids are a difficult audience -- especially the ones who are only listening to you for course credit. Anyway, maybe the NYT critic should read to college kids for a while, then go home and read to his daughter. Because I'm reading Harry Potter to my kids, and we're all into it. My kids are like, "OMG! Ron is annoying! Hermione is annoying! Harry is annoying! What's gonna happen next? Please read one more chapter, Mom!"
6. I am going to bed early, in the hopes that a little extra sleep will help me out. Lately I'm having lots of crazy REM time, and lots of dreams in which I eat sugary foods by the pound. Maybe because my body's pissed at me for working out now?
7. I am planning to wear something boring tomorrow. I've lost 31 pounds since May. Today I wore something a little bit less than boring, and I got a lot of comments. (I wore a skirt that fit instead of a skirt that's one size too big.) I don't really like it when people comment on the way I look. I mean, if you want to compliment my clothing choices, or my fitness progress, then that's fine and I will thank you. But it isn't necessary to compliment or backhandedly compliment my body or any of its parts.
8. I am looking forward to the year 2008. I have a feeling that's going to be a good year for me, and that 2007 was just prep time. So I'm still prepping. But I'll be glad when this year's tucked away and I can move on to new things. You know? 8:17 PM # (12) comments
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Possible Reasons to Get Into ShapeNot my reasons, necessarily. Just hypothetical ones.
1. To fit into better clothing.
2. To wear a certain Halloween costume that you didn't feel comfortable wearing before.
3. To participate in activities you were physically unable to do before.
4. To improve your health.
I know we're not supposed to say that fat people are less healthy, but I have to tell y'all that my hypoglycemia has improved dramatically since I've lost a little weight.
5. To look sexier.
Cheekbones, high waist-to-hip ratio. Human biology says these are sexy.
6. To be able to try new... um... yoga positions.
7. To get more clothing on sale.
Smaller clothes always seem to go on sale more often. To be able to find better stuff at thrift stores.
8. To go up the parking garage stairs without breathing all hard and making your lunch dates worry that you're going to have a heart attack.
Reasons to Lose Weight that May End in Heartbreak
1. So that people will love you.
2. So that people will treat you better.
3. For revenge.
4. So that your life will go from miserable to awesome.
Thrift Store Shopping
I don't mind telling y'all that I'm kind of broke right now. This mortgage and all the expenses that houses incur are kind of killing me. But it's all right -- I have a house. I have equity.
So, in the meantime, I've been losing some weight, right? Remember I told y'all that? And, I'm glad to be losing it, but at the same time, I can't afford to buy new pants as fast as I've been needing them.
Enter: Thrift store shopping.
I have tons of fluctuating issues with thrift store shopping. Sometimes I think it's cool, and fun, and good for the environment. I know lots of people who shop exclusively at thrift stores, and they find really awesome clothes to wear, and I admire them for it. I like vintage clothing, in general. I like the idea of wearing something creative, and something you won't find at every single mall on earth.
But then, sometimes, it gives me PTSD over growing up poor. The smell of the Goodwill will depress me, I mean, and I'll have to turn around and leave.
Other times -- times when I'm fatter -- I hate thrift store shopping because, apparently, fat people never give good clothes away. I don't blame them. When you're fat, it's hard enough to find good-looking clothes. Why would you give your good stuff away without knowing if you'd be able to replace it? No, fat people have to hold on to their good stuff. I know, because I've been fat. More than once.
I'm still pretty fat, but less fat than I was before. Less fat than the pants in my closet, in fact. So, over the weekend, my boyfriend and my youngest son and I went thrift-store shopping. And, oh my god, I am going to shop at thrift stores for the rest of my life, y'all. I mean, at least for as long as I'm less-fat and I have a mortgage I can barely afford.
We went to this one by my house -- one of those gigantic ones with a name like Value Village or Thrift Town or Used Universe or whatever. One of those ones where all the aisles are organized by color, and all the signs are in Spanish, then English, and the staff who sets the prices has NO IDEA what's valuable and what's not.
I mean, granted, what's valuable to me doesn't have to be what's valuable to them. It's good when everyone likes different stuff, right? But still -- it doesn't cease to amaze me how you can go into a thrift store and buy either a polyester jewel-toned skirt suit with big gold buttons for $11.97, or else a wool sweater for $1.93.
Luckily, this thrift store didn't have Depressing Smell. It just had the normal, slightly musty thrift-store smell that fades from your nostrils within a few moments.
I found two sweaters, one top, one skirt, a pair of work pants, and two pairs of jeans, for $30! Dude! And they were nice, too. Some of the stuff even seemed new. I've noticed, lately, that the Goodwill carries new clearance merchandise from Target, Mervyn's, and Wal-Mart. So maybe this Value Thrift World store does, too.
One of the pairs of jeans was from the Gap, and it was good to know that I can wear pants from the Gap now, because I haven't had the guts to try on Gap pants in an actual Gap store yet.
I probably would've bought more stuff, but I was tired of looking through the racks. You have to be in the mood for it, and we were pressed for time. My boyfriend didn't find anything because he wasn't in the mood. My son, however, found a $6 men's blazer that he simply needed to own. He needed it, y'all. For formal wear. For cool weather. For the simple fact that it was six dollars and it looked good on him. Never mind that he's only 10 years old. He needed it, so I bought it. I can't deny him. I know how it feels, to need cool clothes like that.
So we raked it in, and I was glad we went. Just like, for the second year in a row, I was glad we went thrifting for our Halloween costumes, too. A while back, we went to a smaller local thrift store -- our costume-luckiest, and my boyfriend bought a suit and a shirt to use in his costume, totalling about $9. I bought a bee-oo-tiful ladies' full slip (the kind of thing you'd only find in the lingerie section of the thrift store, these days) for $2.32, that will, with a few yards of tulle, become my fairy costume.
I know a photographer who uses thrift store lingerie for photoshoots. I know several bloggers -- including some of y'all reading this, maybe -- who regular post their thrifting finds on their Flickrs. I know artists who scout thrift stores for art supplies. During the summer, I bought a bunch of Barbies from the thrift store to use in my own project. It was, like, twelve barbies for six dollars. Something ridiculous like that. Beautiful Barbies in all colors and vintages. And then a big-headed Filipino Bratz boy, for good measure, for 75 cents.
Anyway. I'm happy. I'm broke but I'm happy. You know? I'm realizing lately that it's totally possible to be both, as long as you have people to love and a little bit of creativity.
Tell me about your thrift store finds, your reasons to get into shape or not, or whatever you want to tell me.
Labels: Halloween, materialism, parenting, vanity
6:25 AM # (24) commentsWednesday, September 19, 2007
LatelyI used to never drink red wine but now I only drink red wine. I've gone from merlot to cabernet and chianti, and next must be shiraz.
We bought our cat a water fountain. She likes to drink the water right from its trickle source. Some people would say it's a waste of energy, to keep it running, but I think it's such a small thing to make a small creature happy, and therefore worth doing. You know?
I think I'm gonna be a fairy for Halloween. Maybe. I'll have to make the costume myself, though, because I don't want to be a slut fairy, and therefore there's no suitable costume in the stores. (All the women's costumes for sale are slut costumes. Remind me to complain about that later.)
This is what I have time to do, between my long commute home and bed time:
1. monitor homework
2. monitor everyone getting fed, one way or another
3. nag about the chores that should've been done before I got home
4. clean up only the very messiest messes, concurrently with one of the tasks above
5. exercise with Gilad
6. nagging the kids to brush their teeth and wash their faces
7. the reading of the bedtime story
and that's about it.
Every single other thing -- dentist bank groceries bills boyfriend oil change tires laundry -- I have to do over the weekend. Or during my lunch hours. Or in my dreams.
I'm glad we got a cat. This one doesn't tear up the furniture or make a big mess, and I feel fleeting joy whenever I see her little cat face. She always has a funny or cute expression. She walks around in a constant state of "Hey guys," or "Am I interrupting?" or "JESUS, A SQUIRREL!!" or "In my fantasies, everyone is chasing me. Look how clever I am, running away from them. Oops, sorry.. smashed into the plant again..."
Back to the Halloween thing.
Not a slutty fairy, and not a pink or purple fairy, and not a gothic fairy, and not an overtly glittery fairy. I want to be a nature-based fairy, in shades of green or aqua with brown, and only a little bit of magic in evidence. In my mind, as I design it, I think the words "pond fairy." I'm a pond fairy, dammit. We're going to a party where I always feel a little insecure. No, strike that -- I always feel insecure at any Halloween party we go to, because I feel like there's this giant expectation that all the women must be dressed promiscuously, and they all must be thin, and the whole purpose of the holiday is to put them on display to the men serving them liquor.
And that's fine -- I'm grown-up enough to ignore any bullshit that I don't want to take part in. But at the same time, I want to get all into it and make a nice costume. Yet I feel there's no use in wasting my creativity on such an event. You know?
I guess I could go to the Ren Fair, because the people who go there are more appreciative of creativity. But we're bored of going there and seeing the same exact stuff year after year. So I tell myself to make whatever costume I want, and then to photograph it and put it on my Flickr, and that'll make it worth the effort. But then I feel silly about that. How vain, to spend money and effort on photos meant to show off, right? (Same way I feel, now, about doing any creative thing for which I don't already have a fee negotiated. :( )
Worst part: I get envious of my boyfriend. He loves to work hard on his costumes and come up with something awesome every single year. And people appreciate it, and they compliment him. Then, they look at me and think, "Not sexy enough," and move on. And I feel... whiny because I haven't received enough attention, I guess. Hate to admit such a weakness, but that's how I feel. Creativity should trump plain nudity, in my mind, but it never will. Will it?
I was looking for inspiration online. (Fairy costumes, I mean.) I found this Flickr set called Convention Costumes Pool. Look at it. What do you think? How many of the women pictured here enjoyed making their costumes? And how many enjoy displaying their bodies to a bunch of convention guys? And how many women here enjoyed making their costumes, but got completely ignored in favor of the convention guys and the women displaying their bodies?
There were some bad-ass costumes among the social experiment, though. Check it:
1. Final Fantasy = awesome piping
2. meshy mer-person
3. Final Fantasy hangover?
4. Awesome Color Scheme Woman
5. I need this woman's wig.
And you know what?
Screw it, while I'm there, I'll just link y'all to some of my favest Flickr faves:
1. shoe fetish
2. If I had to date a non-human, it would be Relax Bear.
3. I want to eat this (then follow Jackie around and eat everything else she eats, too.)
4. Stained glass is always good.
5. So is just about anything that Jagosaurus photographs.
That's all.
Labels: domestic, fantasies, Halloween, lookism, parenting, photos, sexism, vanity, venting
7:57 PM # (9) commentsMonday, September 17, 2007
Disappointing Phoned In PerformanceSo I went to this event Friday night, and the mayor of Houston was supposed to take part in the same "opening ceremony" that I took part in. He showed up very late, first of all. And then...
Did you see Time Bandits? You know how, at the end, the Supreme Being finally shows up, and he's this doddering, distracted old man who is so, so completely underwhelming? That's how I felt when our mayor finally dragged himself up to the stage. Underwhelmed. Short-changed on my climax.
I understand that politicians are busy and have to phone in appearances once in a while. But I've seen politicians show up late, to this very same venue even, and still manage to exude the same charisma that presumably got them elected. In this case, the mayor didn't even do that. He just sort of rambled, without even looking at his audience. People who are more familiar with his public persona tell me that he's always like that, though. Lamest: The stuff he ad-libbed was kind of off-message from the stuff that got said before he showed up. And he said unfactual things that made me look at his assistant, who stood in the audience with a bright smile plastered onto her face, and wonder why she couldn't have bothered to do at least some half-ass Google research in the car on the way over.
So, in short, his "speech" was a complete disconnect. As my boyfriend said, later, there was a steady build-up throughout the evening... and then the mayor showed up and it all came crashing down.
Sorry to go on about an event you guys didn't see, but I felt the need to vent. It was one of those things where I get annoyed and then say, "I ought to blog about it!" in the same way that people used to say, "I ought to write a letter!" And then, in this case, I'm actually doing it. Mayor White, you disappointed me. There: blogged, logged, vented.
If you have a big butt...
... and you need some weight-loss inspiration, and you're tired of flipping through fitness magazines and seeing bodies that could never, ever in a million years be your own... Then you should start reading Spanish.
My boyfriend and I were at the grocery store and, for the hundredth time, our eyes were drawn to the Spanish mags. In this case, it was Mira!, which proclaimed, "Las 30 Bubis y Pompis Mas Sexy!"
"Oh my gosh," I said. "I think this says, The 30 Sexiest Boobs and Butts."
"I love your people," said my boyfriend. He took the magazine off the rack and flipped through the pages. "You should buy this. I get to look at it first, though." He flipped a little more. "I might have to look at it alone, actually. God, I love your people."
I bought it and, later that night, I saw the 30 sexiest boobs and butts. Although, actually, it was 15 pairs of boobs, making 30 breasts total, and then 15 butts added to that. Or, if you're thinking about it in Spanish, it was actually 30 separate nalgas (butt cheeks). I won't spoil it for you guys planning to run out and get your own copy. But I will say that I felt some of the Latina celebrities got cheated in favor of celebrities best known in America. (J.Lo. didn't get number one, though, thankfully.)
The big (literally) 30 aside, the most interesting part of the magazine, to me, was the ads. Imagine if you took an American magazine and replaced every weight-loss-product ad with an ad promising to make your butt rounder, your boobs higher, and your whole torso "como una guitarra!" These ads come with multiple visual aids -- photos of round-bootied women with little arrows echoing their shapes.
I realize, of course, that the old-fashioned hourglass figure is as unattainable for some women as In Touch's 20 Best Beach Bodies is for me. And I don't believe that women should be pressured to conform to any ideal.
However, at the same time, I have to say that it's comforting to be reminded that, in some places on Earth, I can be considered kind of close to the ideal. I smile at the thought of walking down another country's street and not having white frat boys yell "No fat chicks!" out the window.
Okay, I admit that I'm just exaggerating for essay effect, here. Y'all know and I know that there are plenty of Latino men right here in the US who will be glad to ogle big-butted girls as disgustingly as you please. Really, I was just glad to get a magazine with celebrities I could point to and say, "Eight more months of calorie-counting and I'll look just like her!"
Weight Loss update, only for those who care:
I was gonna tell y'all that I've lost 24 pounds since May 15th. But then my scale changed its mind and added back 4 pounds over night. And then it took them away. And then it said I weighed zero. So, let's not rely on the scale. Let's say, instead, that I lost two pant sizes since May 15th. I know that's not as much as I could have lost, but I'm still pleased with myself. Good job, me.
How am I losing the weight? Easy! I'm obsessing over it. But not in the bad way. Or, at least, not in a way that I think is bad. I just count calories, and I think a lot about what I eat, and I think about how many calories I burn. And it's fun, actually.
Fun for me, I mean. The other day, I asked my friend Julio if he'd give me his scientific opinion on something. He said okay, because he likes science and is easily gulled. So I confided in him all my worried about BMI, ideal weight, and frame size.
(According to my elbow bone measurement, my frame is very small. According to my wrist measurement, my frame is very large. According to my brother Erik, I have "a big fucking head for a girl." How can I know which weight range is ideal for me if I don't really know my frame size? Why are there endomorphs, mesomorphs, and ectomorphs, but no Tyrannasauras-Rex-o-morphs, like me -- people with giant heads, giant legs, and tiny, tiny arms?)
So I was talking to Julio about these things, and after a half-hour or so, he said, "You really are kind of obsessing over this, aren't you?" And I said, "Well, yeah, but that's what I do -- obsess. That's how I get things done. How do you think I have the staying power to write a whole book, huh? I obsess!"
So then another hour passed, and I was still just touching on the finer points of my weight loss ideas and issues, and then Julio interrupted and said, "Be honest with me. You're talking to me about this stuff not because it's scientific, but because your boyfriend got sick of hearing it and told you to talk to someone else."
Wrong! Of course not. Hello -- my boyfriend would never do that! Instead, he'd just stop listening, but then keep nodding his head in the most convincing way.
So, guess what I'm going to do now. I'm going to share my information, so that my fellow constructive obsessives can have something to think about on their breaks.
How to Lose Weight, Slowly but Surely
by Gwen
1. First, calculate the number of calories you need to eat daily in order to maintain your current weight. Here's a calculator for that.
2. Once you have that number -- let's say it's 2600 -- subtract 500 from it if you want to lose one pound a week. Subtract 1000 from it if you want to lose two pounds a week. (Doctors say please don't eat less than 1200 calories per day. It's not safe.) So, let's say you're now dedicated to eating 1600 per day. You're going to have 500 for breakfast, 500 for lunch, 500 for dinner, and one 100-calorie snack, let's say.
3. How do you know how many calories you're eating? Either read the nutritional info, or go find a calorie chart, or go to your fave restaurants' web sites and look up the nutritional info of what you want to eat (and be shocked at how many calories are in restaurant food). Can you just eat three 500-calorie pieces of cake per day, plus one 100-calorie candy? Sure you can, if you want to be all jacked-up and unhealthy, and you want your skin to get scabby and your hair to look all dull and stuff. Alternately, you can eat the proper ratio of protein, fat, and carbs, and turn glossy and awesome like a golden retriever in an expensive dog-food commercial. Your choice.
Tip 1: Vegetables, fruits, and watery foods like soup have fewer calories per ounce than meat, cheese, and dairy foods.
Tip 2: You can cut up zucchini and add it to pretty much anything (chili, casseroles, sandwiches, cake, crack pipes), and then your food will have fewer calories per ounce.
Tip 3: Whenever you go to Starbucks, be sure to say "non-fat" in front of whatever you normally order.
Tip 4: Jelly has fewer calories than butter.
4. Do you also need to exercise in order to lose the weight? No, you do not. However, if you count calories but then lie on your ass watching TV all day, you'll probably lose muscle mass as well as fat, and then you'll become a slender blob, and your flesh will feel like that of a green, hairless caterpillar. So you might want to exercise at least a little. The coolest thing about exercise is that it burns calories, and therefore it either makes you lose the weight faster, or else it helps you out on days when you felt obligated to eat more than your 1600 calories. Here is a mathmatical formula for that:
What you were supposed to eat
+ one donut
+ one glass of wine
- 45 minutes of Dance Dance Revolution
= You still did okay today.
How do you know how many calories your exercising burns? With a calculator like this one.
5. Buy smaller clothes. Don't buy too many at a time, though, unless you hit a plateau. I find that, the minute I break down and buy a bunch of new pants, I immediately lose enough weight to have wasted all that money. So only buy a lot of pants if you believe in Murphy's Law or the Alanis Morrissette brand of irony. You might want to save money for new clothes in advance, since you'll need more than you're imagining right now. I mean, you'll need all new underwear, eventually, and maybe even smaller shoes. You might want to look into finding a good tailor in your neighborhood. They can take in your clothes as you lose, and save you a little money.
6. As you lose weight, you'll need to recalculate the number of calories needed to maintain your new weight, then subtract from that new number accordingly. If you don't do this, you'll hit a plateau and then get all whiny and give up.
7. When you've reached your target weight, recalculate your maintenance calorie number, and then just don't subtract from it anymore. So, hypothetically, you could eat the same thing as before, but with four glazed donuts added, because glazed donuts are about 240 calories each. Just kidding. Don't do the donut thing. Just add 1000 calories of carrots, instead.
And there you have it. It's just that simple. I'm crossing my fingers for you. Good luck!
Labels: pop culture, vanity, venting
6:06 AM # (13) commentsThursday, August 16, 2007
I feel simultaneously old, proud, and broke.My son wants an electric guitar for his 15th birthday.
Maybe I'll dig up my old Led Zeppelin chord charts for him, while I'm at it. Ah, youth. Ah, memories. Ah, wasted lessons! Anybody got a cheap guitar for sale, let me know.
Houston, I love you, but you're stupid.
How hard is it to drive without touching your car on the other cars around you? It's too hard for people who take my freeway home, apparently. Especially the people entering/exiting on a certain exit. Every time the DJ says, "And there's a wreck on [Gwen's freeway]," I say, "Was it on [the exit where 90% of the wrecks occur]?" and the DJ says, "Yes, Gwen. Yes, it was."
So then, today, it was raining. It's raining a little because Tropical Depression Ernie (or whatever they named it) is edging its way into town. It might be followed by Hurrican Dean, and it might not. But that's beside the point. The point is, it started to rain, and therefore several people in Houston automatically lost the few driving skills they had. There was a multi-car pile-up on my freeway this morning. There always is, every effing time it rains. Not when it storms, and not when it hurricanes... all it has to do is rain, and people are wrecking all over the place.
People. Put down your cell phones. Put down your eyelash curlers. Stop texting on your Blackberries. For the love of God, stop working your Sudoku puzzles. (I swear to God on the Bible, I saw a woman doing that on the freeway the other day. While driving! Granted, traffic was stop and go. But still!)
If you know in your heart that you aren't a very good driver, or that you're easily distracted, or that you're really bad at judging distances and brake times... Please, please, please put down all your other stuff and keep your eyes on the road. Damn it. Seriously, people. Get it together. What would you do if you had to live in a city where it snowed? You'd be dead by now, wouldn't you?
Also: If you know your car's a piece of crap and it's likely to stall on the freeway, take the effing feeder road, instead. Or, at the very least, ride in the freeway's rightmost lane, so you can get to the shoulder if anything happens. Leave the middle and left lanes for people who can afford tune-ups and gasoline, okay?
I know no one who needs to is reading this. I know there'll be some jacked-up, time-consuming accident on the way home this very afternoon, in fact. Screw it. I'm doing happy hour after work. I'm not driving home til dark.
Food Patterns and Vanity
Do you ever get into a certain food flow? Like, a craving that lasts a long time?
Right now I'm really into eating eggs and toast for breakfast. Every day. I think I've had eggs and toast for about 18 days straight now. My body, it needs the protein. It wants the bread and butter for comfort, too. I'm thinking about buying a toaster, actually, so I don't have to outsource the toast production all the time. But I know the minute I get one, I'll stop wanting eggs and toast. I'll go back to Special K Protein, or Generic Version of Special K With Strawberries, instead.
My other food flow, lately, is plums. Plums are pretty awesome, don't you think? They don't get mushy as fast as peaches, and they don't get mealy like nectarines. And their skins hold everything in, and they're a compact, almost cute size, and they only have, like, 40 calories each. And you can eat almost the whole thing, apart from the pit and the stem. They're like cherries, but bigger and cheaper, and less susceptible to mold. So I'm really into plums right now. (You're like, "Uh, thanks for that info," right?)
Today, in other calorie-related news, I finally lost enough weight to wear this shirt that I've been holding onto, without its buttons popping off my chest and putting out somebody's eye.
Which isn't too crow-worthy, in the grand scheme of things, because that just means I've fought back down to the same weight I was at a year ago. And I still have quite a ways to go to meet my goal, which is "the weight I was at 2 years ago."
And the seasons, they go 'round and 'round, and the yo-yo diet goes up and down. I'm singin' 'bout a carousel of fat...
(Sorry, Joni Mitchell. Sorry!)
I mean, none of this really matters, in the grand scheme of things. But, at the same time, I'm happy to be wearing this shirt again.