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.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Remember the song they played at the end of Fast Times at Ridgemont High? The one that goes "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!"?I'm getting sort of high from working so hard. See, I want to do as much work as I can before I leave this job, and it's sort of the same feeling as writing something on deadline. Adrenaline kicks in. That song from Fast Times runs through your head.
Is it weird that I have integrity and a work ethic? Some people seem to think so.
1) People keep telling me, "I guess you're not even coming on Thursday, huh?" Thursday is my last day. Of course I'm coming in.
2) No one's come to talk to me about how much stuff I should try to get done before I leave. Or to ask what I'm leaving behind for them to do.
3) Whenever I call or email someone to say, "I did most of Project X. All you have to do is wait for Joe Blow to send you the widgets," they act surprised. "Oh... I didn't expect you to finish that."
That's how this place has been for the past five years, though. They mainly leave me to my own devices, as far as workflow is concerned. I guess I should take it as a compliment -- I would've heard something from them if I wasn't working fast enough.
So... If I were someone else, I might be tempted to totally slack off during my last week. But, instead, I am me, and therefore I'm getting a sick thrill from watching my cube get cleaner and cleaner as my Outbox stacks up.
I get two goodbye lunches now. One formal, one casual. The formal one is being combined with Administrative Professionals or, as We Call Them, Secretaries' Day. The casual one is being combined with Thursday. I might have a drink at that one. Then, I take a day off. (Which I will spend writing. And I'm not just saying that in case my editor is reading this.) Then, I have a weekend. Then, Monday I start my new job.
I kind of thought I should've taken a week off in between, to process, debrief, achieve closure, whatever, after this 5-year stint. But I'm broke, so I won't. I'll just bust butt at the new job, and that will serve those purposes.
Goodbye, expiring job. I am non-renewing you.
That's an insurance joke, for all my P&C Peeps. Funny, isn't it? No, it's not. Oh, well. Goodbye, Insurance Broking. You've been good to me. Thanks.
Status Checks
How is everyone? Say your answer in your mind. Okay, got it. Now, here's how everyone near me has been:
Toby: Still irrationally afraid; still fighting/playing/sexing with Starbuck.
Starbuck: Still aspires to Mutual of Omaha level hunter prowess; still fighting/playing/sexing with Toby.
My dentist/future brother-in-law: Looking good. Most of his lesions/bumps/dots have gone away. He's chipper and determined to carry out several missions with the rest of his life. Almost dying will do that to you, I guess. It'll get you geared up and doubly ambitious for the future.
My boyfriend: Still engaged to me. Still the best boyfriend on earth. Thinking hard about where we're going to live when we get married. (Latest ETA: Two years from now.)
My middle son: Still living with his dad. But he says he's happy, so I'm happy for him.
My other two kids: Still living with me and leveling up on all the games. I'm thinking of putting my oldest son in driving school. Why? So he can have a license, in case one of his video games breaks down and he needs to go somewhere. Just kidding. Okay, that's all I can say about them. I would tell you stuff about the oldest one lifting weights and walking around sans shirt all the time, but I don't want to say too much.
My dad: Still pretending he's going to retire soon. Growing his beard bigger in preparation. We told him to please stop doing that, but you know how old people are. All hard-headed and stuff. They don't listen.
Me: I'm happy. I'm good.
Houston Metro sucks.
I'm not going to get all into it, as I swore I'd do while driving down the freeway yesterday morning, having been unable to take my park-n-ride bus to work. I'm not going to type all the words I screamed in my head, throughout the hour-long drive.
Instead, I'll just ask a question. What's the point of making all Metro riders buy Q Cards, and spending money telling everyone how convenient Q cards are, if new riders will be unable to refill said Q Cards in the machines provided for that purpose at their park-and-ride stations?
Hmm? Hint: Having a gentleman in Metro uniform tell me, "Did you buy your card at the gas station or grocery store? Yeah, those never work in that machine. You should've bought your card downtown," doesn't help.
Extra hint: When I call you, Metro operator, and ask you that question about the Q Cards and their inconvenience, you saying, "Okay, we'll send a technician out to look at that machine," is not the answer.
The apparent answer: Go back in a time machine and somehow know all the secret workings of the Q Cards, which are not the same workings posted on the signs all over the damned buses and park-and-rides.
Okay. Whatever. I know that made no sense -- it's hard to talk sensibly about infuriating, illogical things. Eff you, Metro. The end.
Let's end on a happy note.
If I can find 30 cents somewhere around me, I'm going to buy a Diet Coke. That'll be nice. 1:29 PM # (7) comments
Monday, March 03, 2008
I should have trusted my instincts.I said that McDonald's wouldn't be able to compete with Starbucks, and I should have believed myself. But they sent me a coupon for a free "premium iced coffee," so I thought I'd give it a shot.
At McDonald's, iced coffee means pre-sweetened latte. The drive-through guy asked if I wanted hazelnut or vanilla. I said, "Can I get it with just Splenda?" He said, "Yeah. Hazelnut, vanilla, or regular?" I said regular, with two Splendas.
They gave me a latte with I-don't-know-what-kind of dairy product, obviously presweetened and then with two Splendas thrown on top. Annoying. Now I can resume my practice of avoiding McDonald's entirely, though.
Uncharitable thought of the day: I told my boyfriend, afterwards, that the McDonald's "premium iced coffees" are for people who can't afford Starbucks and don't know what espresso is, but want to pretend they're drinking it, too. I predicted that, soon, McD's drive-through customers will order like this, "Two Big Macs and two vanilla Starbuckses." And McDonald's will serve them that, and Starbucks' market dominance will be complete.
Yes, I know that Starbucks is for middle-class people who don't know what real espresso is. And that's okay -- I'm fine being that.
A sad, sad, sad, sad thing about my life.
A million years ago, when people were first going from "newsgroups" to "bulletin boards," I used to hang out on a bulletin board called Mediarama, hosted by writer Daniel Drennan. And I used to love the living shit out of Mediarama and most of its posters.
While at Mediarama, I began to create web content, myself. Then, one day, I left Mediarama. Since then, I've tried various online forums and even started my own, but never found anything as good, smart, or fun. And, before you say it, I'm more than willing to admit that it's me who's changed, and not the Internets.
"Forums" have become blog-comment threads, for the most part. All the names for things change, but it's all still people trying to hang out online, trying to find others they want to virtually get to know. Less and less frequently, I try to find an online hang-out. More and more frequently, I find myself bored with the repetitive interactions and personality types. And then I get disappointed. And then I sigh and feel sorry for myself.
The pattern I find lately, on boards that attract me, is that there's a good mix of straight guys, gay guys, and straight women, most of whom I assume are white -- maybe with a few non-white people clearly identified either by their names or constant reminders in their posts.
What always starts to turn me off (other than the possibly imaginary pressure to identify my ethnicity) is the way the straight chicks will fawn over the straight guys. Eventually, so many boards devolve into the female characters competing to sound sexy for the straight male characters. (Who knows what these people are in real life? Maybe they're all neutered cats and dogs.)
I don't know where other women like me go -- women who like to talk to men and maybe sometimes like to joke about sex, but who don't want to participate in a cyber-sex contest. And don't want to talk about lip gloss or DHs. (Dear Hubbies. Barf. Just typing that makes me feel ill.)
This is not a request for suggestions. Please don't tell me to visit your favorite forum, because I'm a very negative, judgmental person and therefore I won't like it. But tell me your favorite forum if you want, keeping in mind that I'll never visit it. Then it should be okay -- no expectations or awkward excuse-making.
something different to do
Recently I've tried doing my rush-hour commute with my car windows open. At first it scared me a little, then I felt self-conscious, then I was puzzled as to how to deal with men who took open windows as a social invitation.
But now I like it. I like the breeze and the sun, and driving unenclosed makes me feel more human (like a herd animal, maybe?) and therefore, overall, less susceptible to road rage. Try it if your weather permits, and if your traffic is slow enough to keep the wind from messing up your hair.
A Puppet Show
Prudencia is a weathered wooden puppet in a checkered smock, with tangled orange vines on its head.
Hortensia is a big clay puppet made up of purple balls.
Griseld is a wiry leaning puppet all swathed in olive drab.
Prudencia and Hortensia are bobbing around two pyramids of fruit.
Prudencia: What is this you say? You're taking three of my apples?
Hortensia: I say that you can have three oranges!
Prudencia: Did you say that you're taking three of my apples for Griseld?
Hortensia: Did you say that Griseld is taking your apples?
Both: Yes!
Hortensia bobs away. Prudencia does a monologue.
Prudencia: For too long has Griseld coveted my fruit. This is the last straw!
Griseld comes onstage with a single leaf.
Griseld: Prudencia, have you seen the Anderson file?
Prudencia: Oh, I'll teach you to covet, little monster!
Griseld: Uh, what?
Prudencia: Oh, I'll smile sweet, as sweet as the fruit you covet. But soon you shall know the bitterness at the heart of it!
Griseld: Um. Okay.
Curtain closes. Curtain opens. Griseld and Hortensia are standing near a pile of leaves and a single cube of glass.
Griseld: Prudencia, have you seen my Anderson file? Also, do you know who deleted our entire database.
Hortensia: No.
Griseld: Hmm. I guess I should ask Prudencia. You know, I don't think she likes me very much.
Hortensia: No! You're imagining that!
Griseld: She keeps saying weird things to me about peels and pith and paring knives. In a really creepy, passive-aggressive way, too.
Hortensia: Oh! That makes sense, then!
Griseld: What does?
Hortensia: The other day I told Prudencia that you wanted all her apples, and she said you had obviously been plotting against her from the start.
Griseld: What? Why did you say that? I don't want any of her apples!
Hortensia: You don't? Oh, well. Hey, can I have that leaf?
Griseld faces audience with tragicomic puppet expression.
Griseld: Jesus freaking Christ.
Curtain closes.
FIN.
Labels: pop culture, venting
12:03 PM # (27) commentsThursday, 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
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
what happens mostAll day long I look at people doing things they don't want to do, or not doing things they do want to do. It's depressing.
Obviously, most of us have to work for our living. But does that also mean that we have to talk about the weather? Eat bland food? Buy only one bag, and make sure that bag is black so that it goes with everything? Watch whatever they put on the TV at 7 PM? Stay home when we'd really rather be out, doing anything else? Drive by places we'd like to see, but tell ourselves we can't go in, for no reason at all? Wear whatever set of something that someone put on a rack? Keep our opinions to ourselves? Keep our eyes down? Laugh at things that aren't funny? Smile at people we don't like? Do things for people who don't appreciate it, and wait in vain for them to do things for us? Do the same things every day, even if they've never made us happy?
Why, people? Come on and love yourselves better. If you don't, who will?
A Sad Story About Body Image
A while back I hauled my boyfriend, Tad, to the 35th anniversary celebration of MECA, the local non-profit arts organization at which I used to do artsy stuff as a teenager. Someone there had made a DVD compilation of many shows they've hosted over the years. One of them was West Side Story, staged in 1989, in which seventeen-year-old me played Anita.
My boyfriend Tad wanted to see the whole thing, so we borrowed MECA's old VHS tape of the first half. (It's like, three thousand hours long, and no one knows where the VHS of the second half is.) I told the MECAns that I would have it copied to DVD and then return it postehaste.
At home, Tad and I made popcorn (or glasses of wine, can't remember) and settled in to watch the blast from my past. We pushed Play on the VCR (that I still keep plugged in because it's the only way we have of connecting the DVD, the PS2, and the XBOX360 to our TV. I know -- I need to upgrade.)
Just hearing the intro music made me nervous. Then, I saw myself on stage in my red satin dress with salsa petticoats, in the long, brown, curly-haired wig that covered my tacky '90s skater hair, in the flat jazz shoes I had to wear instead of the sexy character shoes that everyone else wore, so that I wouldn't be taller than Bernardo... and the first thing I thought was, "God, I'm so big."
I was 5'9", size 6.
God, I was so big.
I'm not saying that as a former or current sufferer of body dysmorphia. I'm just telling y'all that, compared to everyone else I knew then, I was very big.
Watching the show made me uncomfortable. I don't think I'd ever even seen it before in its entirety, but watching myself on the TV that night instantly freaking transported me into the prism of awkwardness that I was way back then. I saw my lackluster dancing and it made me feel, again, the fear of putting my arms out too far, standing up too straight, and being too big for the stage, my man, and everyone else. I heard my minimalist line recital and felt again the fear of being too Latina or not Latina enough. Too good or not good enough. I looked at my own face and re-felt all the worries, fears, insecurities, and awkward, awkward, embarrassing, humiliating, shame and guilt and insecure, fearful, worried etcetera. All the time. Every day.
"This is terrible," I said.
"This is awesome," Tad said. "You were hot. I wish I'd known you back then. I mean, even though I was only eleven years old and you wouldn't have talked to me. But still."
"I'm so big," I said. And then I told Tad everything I just told you, about the insecurity and the awkwardness and the bleh.
He said I wasn't big at all. He said, "Baby. You were a woman, and those other girls were girls. That's nothing to be ashamed of."
Why didn't he tell me that back then? you're wondering. I don't know.
Anyway. I called my friend Letty, also a MECA survivor, and she told me she often felt the same way. Too big. Not small enough. Weird. Ungainly. Grotesque. Like a monster. Funny how the world can make you feel that way, while simultaneously exploiting girls your age for illegal pornography. You know?
So anyhow. I decided not to have the VHS tape made into a DVD. I don't want that thing. It doesn't make me happy.
I was kind of sad not to see the second half, though. The second half contained my best song -- a duet with my friend Tania, who got the Maria part but wanted Anita, while I got Anita and wanted Maria so badly. I think we did very well, considering that she was the natural alto and I was the second soprano.
Also, the second half contained the "struggle" scene, which was pretty much an attempted rape scene, in which Ziggy Garcia played a white guy Jet who wanted a taste of spicy Anita, and in which I regularly fought Ziggy off, sometimes to the point of hurting him, and once to the point of my wig falling off. That was a fun scene to play. It was cathartic, at least -- all that angst getting channeled into violence. Getting to be angry in front of everybody. Being glad, for the moment, that I was big.
A Sad Message for Twenty-Something Women
I'm going to tell y'all something that a thirty-something woman told me, back when I was in my twenties. Because it was something I never would have known, otherwise, and because I love y'all. Here it is:
The first part of you to get old is your stomach.
Your digestive system, to be exact. That's the first thing on your body to fall apart. When you turn thirty, something on that trail will start slacking on the job. Acid reflux. Constipation. Gall stones. Flatulence. Etcetera.
You'll think back to all the times you heard older people make weird, random-seeming complaints like, "I need more fiber" or "I wish I could eat processed meats" or "Today's one of those mashed-potatoes-only days for me." And you'll be like, "ZOMG! Now I know what they're talking about! And therefore, I am turning old!"
And you'll be right. And you'll be sad.
I'm just telling y'all because I love y'all, and I don't want you to be scared when you turn thirty, thinking that it's only happening to you. It's not. It's happening to us all, and we will all end up eating nothing but mashed potatoes and oatmeal. It's the cycle of life.
Toby Update
1. Starbuck still doesn't like Toby.
2. Toby still feels a need to dig in the houseplant, although I couldn't tell if it was for waste products or just for fun.
3. Toby discovered that food and water taste even better when they come from Starbuck's bowls.
4. Starbuck kind of hates Toby's guts, actually.
5. I forgot to tell y'all the other day that I think Toby's part Siamese, or some other kind of Asian cat ethnicity. You can't really tell in the pics I've shown you, but he has the Asian cat eyes and head shape. When we got him, he didn't really meow a lot. When he got home, I noted that he would meow once, in response to his name. (Smart boy.) But then, last night, at 1 AM, Toby decided he needed to meow. A lot. It was like, "Meow. What's up, y'all? How come everyone's lying down and all the lights are off? What's everybody doing? Why isn't anyone petting me? Hello? HELLO-O-O-O!"
And I was like, "Oh my god, someone's on fire!" as I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen to warm a bottle or catch vomit in my hands or fight off a monster or whatever. But it was just Toby, speaking his mind. He got quiet as soon as I came out and found him. He even stayed quiet when I tripped over his giant cat body in the dark. So I pet him half a time, told him to play quietly, and went back to bed.
Thirty minutes later, it started again. "Hello! You guys! What's up? I thought y'all woke up and were gonna play with me! How come I'm the only one talking? Meow!"
I ignored him so he wouldn't be rewarded for his noise-making. He quieted down. Then, an hour later, he piped up again. But this time it was more like, "Meow yow yow, doo dee doo... Here I am, walking around. I think I'll eat from this bowl. Mm, that was good. Hmm. Why's that other cat hissing at me again? Man, it sure is quiet in here. Hey, what's that out the window? Man, I sure am awake now. Funny how I'm the only one..."
And then I thought that he sounded Siamese. Because isn't that something Siamese cats do? Talk to themselves?
6. I took more pictures of Toby and Starbuck, with a Mexican piggy bank next to each for scale. Didn't have time to post them, though. I'll have to do that later today, after the day job is done.
Shimmy Update
I'm still doing the Shimmies. However, I'm starting to realize that belly dancing in sweatpants and a t-shirt could never be as fun as belly dancing in a hip scarf and sequined bra.
That's how they get you, see. That's how they get you hooked. They make you shake your hips to the too-mellow music, and then you wish you had fake gold coins to keep the beat. Next thing you know, you're spending all your money on costumes and spending all your weekends at the Renaissance fairs.
It's a racket, I tell you. "Sensual dance with mystical origins, as old as the sands of time." Sure. That's how old the hip-scarf-selling racket is. I should have known. 5:21 AM # (13) comments
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Toby updateToby spent the night in my oldest son's room. Starbuck spent the night in the living room, instead of on my bed like she normally does. Was she guarding the whole house from Toby? I don't know. After I woke up, she went into my room, I guess. Moments later, Toby bounded in to say good morning. I petted him. Then I heard this ominous, "Er-r-r-r-r... ERR-R-R-R!" from under the bed. "Starbuck! Be nice!" I yelled.
Poor Toby, after apparently holding it all night, finally went to the bathroom... in one of our houseplants. "No-o-o!" I cried, scaring him across the house. But then he let me carry him back into the hall and show him the real litter box. I'd shown it to him yesterday, but neglected to scratch his paws in it, like you're supposed to. So I did his paws, and he made this face like, "Oh. That's why you showed me this box yesterday. Okay."
Poor thing.
I hope that, once the house is emptied of humans, Starbuck will get bored enough to be a good hostess. Maybe she'll give Toby a tour and let him share a seat next to her at the Bastard-Squirrel-Watching Window.
Avon: What's up with it?
At my work, in the room called Ladies, there's a new Avon catalog with something weird on the back. It says, "Rich, creamy goodness! Moisturizing body yogurt!" And it shows pastel, fruit-scented lotions in yogurt-carton-like containers, with a spoon dipping into one of them.
Isn't that kind of disgusting? Body yogurt? Not only does it sound like smearing food on your body, which is a practice best left to seventies porn, in my opinion, but it also carries the vague connotation of... I don't know. A cure for yeast infections or something? Okay, I'm sorry I said that. But I had to. It was there, in the back of my mind. I'm just not turned on to the body yogurt idea.
Plus, the ad copy: "Rich, creamy goodness." Doesn't that sound like early 2000s blogspeak? Like a phrase a blogger would use facetiously, on a blog called something like, "A Blog of One's Own" or "Randomized Thoughts," to describe Josh Hartnett in a shirtless scene?
You'll be glad to know that I finally found a pair of brown boots.
And I got them on outrageous discount, 65% off. I want to wear them every day. I'm wearing them today, in fact, with a dress they probably don't go with. They look sort of like galoshes with this dress. But I don't care.
Here they are. They look just like that, but darker. That picture is way bright/reddish on my monitor, for some reason.
And, normally I wouldn't link to something I bought in that way, but I really wanted you to see the boots, because I've been talking about looking for brown boots on this blog for, what? Nine thousand years now? And I know y'all have probably been worried about it. It's probably kept y'all up at night, your concern regarding my boot search... So I just wanted you to know you can lay the matter to rest now.
rich people annoyingness
There are certain web sites in this world on which the commenters annoy me with their snobbery. It's usually on sites about fashion or New York that a certain breed of blogsnob will show up and hate on people who buy cheap clothing. They'll be like, "Oh my god, I wouldn't be caught dead in Old Navy. People who shop at Kohl's should kill themselves. I use Banana Republic silk blouses to wipe my nose. I can't touch, share oxygen with, or live in the bourrough of anyone who browses the Barney's clearance racks."
And I always think, "Yeah, right." Who are these people, who brag about their wealth and discriminating taste anonymously, in someone else's blog comments? Who are they supposed to be fooling? Who would care, besides the other faux rich people commenting anonymously?
Then again, maybe they aren't fake. Unfortunately, I've met some rich people in real life who really do believe that either:
a) they're smart for being rich and everyone else is stupid for not being rich, or
b) they're better than everyone else, as evidenced by the fact that they were born rich.
Maybe people who were born rich are better than everyone else (or at least they were, in a past life). But I don't think so. And I'm not just saying that because I was born poor.
Some people think that we're all the same -- that no one is better than anyone else. I don't believe that, either.
I think that being a good person (good person, better person, best person) is based on your behavior. We can't all be born rich, smart, or attractive, but most of us can make the choice to be good -- to treat others as we'd like to be treated -- or to be assholes. And that's the basis on which I set a person's value, in my mind.
All that sounds super elementary and not worth discussing, I know. But I swear to gosh, I really do talk to people on a daily basis who believe that being born with money makes someone a more valuable person. Or that pretty people are more valuable. Or that smart people are. To each their own, I guess. But I hate it when people apply that value system to me. I hate it when someone quite obviously decides that I'm good enough to talk to because they find me attractive enough, or because I've published a book, or because I've pulled myself up by the bootstraps. Don't talk to me if that's why you're talking to me. Don't talk to me if you're an asshole.
(I know some of y'all reading this blog are rich, and some of you are Republicans, and that it sometimes seems like I hate rich people and Republicans. I know this because y'all write to me and say, "I know you hate rich Republicans, but I am one and I still like your blog." I don't hate rich people or Republicans! I know a lot of decent people of both persuasions, and I wouldn't judge y'all on that, alone. :) )
And that ends my rant for today. Come back next time for another petty, judgmental, evil rant.
overtraining
A while back, I was on this here blog pretending that I might take up jogging, and my e-buddy Mike gave me some advice. He said, "Don't overtrain." And he cited an example of his own overzealous exercise and self-injury.
I thought of Mike the other day when I was trying to break through my weight-loss plateau. I'd already walked a couple of miles that day and done a half-hour routine with Gilad. And I was so annoyed at not having lost any more weight, I decided to do some cardio an hour before bed.
And I pulled a muscle in my lower back, and Mike's words floated above my head like the Ghost of Overzealous Workouts Past.
And now my back hurts, and I can hardly exercise at all. And I've only lost 2 lbs this month, when I should have lost 5. And now I just have to eat less, I guess, if I want to meet my goal, which is to lose 20 pounds total by May 1.
If I can't meet that goal, I won't hate myself or anything. But it will be a little disappointing, and it'll set back my plans and my time table for deciding on a Halloween costume. And etc.
But, if all that turns out to be the least of my problems, then I'll be doing pretty well and I'll be relieved. :)
Labels: cats, materialism, vanity, venting
5:30 AM # (7) commentsWednesday, January 09, 2008
Life SkillsWhen I was in third grade at Roosevelt Elementary School, we had a very good teacher named Mrs. Dorothea Terry. Ms. Terry taught us a lot of important things outside the normal, Houston Independent School District sanctioned curriculum. I remember that whenever she had to discuss anything delicate or sexual, such as the time we read Johnny Tremain and someone asked what castration meant, she would first say, "If any of you feel like you can't handle this subject matter -- like you might feel uncomfortable and that will make you giggle or whisper -- please feel free to go into the hall and I'll call you back when we're done discussing it." No one ever left the room, and everyone understood that laughing during such talks was a mark of immaturity.
She taught us how to be good audience members. We were planning a fieldtrip to see The Nutcracker, and so she showed us the proper way to applaud. And I'm sure the lesson encompassed more than that, but all I specifically remember is the clapping, all of us lightly striking our left palms with the fingers of our right hands.
***
Since graduating from public school, I've noticed that a lot of adults in Texas missed out by not spending third grade in Mrs. Terry's class. Whenever I give a reading at a community college, for instance, I notice that a lot of my audience has obviously never attended a reading before. Either they'll pointedly avoid making eye contact with me and the other speakers, or else they'll look at us with facial expressions I'm sure they wouldn't consciously make in other situations. Or they'll quietly talk to each other during the reading, as if they're at the movies, discussing people on a screen. Or, saddest, they'll laugh at something that's meant to be funny, but they'll cover their mouths, thinking they're not supposed to.
I've been to community colleges where the professors treat the students like disabled high school kids. If I'm reading and someone starts giggling and whispering in the back, I'll do exactly what our teachers used to do to us in elementary school. I'll say something like, "Am I interrupting your conversation? Should I pause so you guys can leave the room?"
And then, afterwards, these students' professors will apologize to me and say, "It's hard for them... They come from different backgrounds... They don't go to many readings..." As if any of that is an excuse for rudeness. And I'll feel sorry for those professors and wonder what they put up with in their classrooms every day.
Sometimes I'll speak to a class that's well enough behaved, but very inhibited. And I'll interrupt my own reading/seminar and tell the students that it's okay if they want to laugh, or gasp or scoff, because authors expect listener reactions. I'll tell them, during the question and answer session, that they can ask whatever they want, and not only questions that sound teacher-approved. Because we're all adults, and a reading is meant to be enjoyed. And then the students will loosen up, and we have fun.
And afterwards, their professors will tell me, "Wow, they really enjoyed your reading!" and that they're going to do a class on audience ettiquette, or on how to interview authors, and that they're going to take their classes to more readings in the future.
A lot of times I'll do a reading for one particular class that's reading my book, and then other classes who aren't reading my book will show up to my reading -- required attendance for credit. So, when I go to community colleges or high-school-age events, the first thing I like to ask is how many people in the room want to be writers. Usually, only one or two people will raise their hands. Then, I'll ask how many people are there against their will, and most of them will raise their hands.
In those cases, I shift from talking about my writing to talking about acheiving one's goals. And that's when I get a lot of questions from people who want to be DJs, nurses, entrepreneurs, and etc. And, the more I do these kinds of readings, the more strongly I feel that I have a personal mission. It is to let kids know that they're allowed to do stuff.
You know? Because that's the big undercurrent in all these situations I'm describing to you. I think that a lot of kids are raised with sentiments like, "You don't go to plays and readings. Only those people go to plays and readings. Therefore, I don't expect much of your behavior on the few occassions where you're forced to go to a play or a reading." And how easily does that attitude cloud one's whole life?
"I go to community college. Only those people go to the university."
"I don't want to be an artist. Only people like that get to be artists."
"I'm not going to speak up. Only people like her are supposed to speak up."
I look at Facebook and see all these kids from Choate and Marymount bleeting out their opinions of the presidential candidates, all sexist and misspelled and uninformed, and I wonder where the sexist, misspelled, uninformed comments from 5th Ward and East LA and Compton students are. You know? No, I don't wonder, actually. I know. They're frozen in those students' heads, because only those other kids are allowed to spew silliness, right?
I'm not trying to brag, but I'm a very popular speaker at local community colleges, and the audiences there enjoy the hell out of my readings. I enjoy talking to them, too. My favorite part is after the reading, because -- inevitably -- a few people will come up to me and say, "I really do want to be a writer, but I didn't want to say it earlier." Or, "I write all the time at home, but I didn't think that counted until you said so just now." And, even if I don't sell many books at those readings, I'm always glad I went.
A while back I went to read to a bunch of junior high girls at a local community center. We ended up talking not about my book, but about applying for high schools. We spent more than half an hour erasing misconceptions about who's allowed to apply for better public schools, who's allowed to ride the school bus, who's allowed to get on the Internet and look for information, who's allowed to be smart without worrying about fitting in, who's allowed to want a little more success than their parents had. We didn't talk about writing at all. (But, even so, at the end, someone came up and whispered to me that she wanted to be a writer.) And I was glad I went. If all I ever taught someone was that she was allowed to do a little more, that would be enough for me.
***
Every time I go to one of my son's junior high band recitals, I resent most of the other parents because they're very rude. They talk and yawn during the performance. Between pieces, they make insensitive remarks. The band teachers wear suits and dresses. Our kids wear tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and vests. I wear whatever I wore to work that day ("business"), but then half the parents are in shorts, flip-flops, undershirts, baseball caps. Their hair uncombed. Their teeth full of food.
I used to hate them, but now I just pity them. You know why? Because no one taught them better, because no one ever thought they'd grow up to go to plays or readings or even junior high recitals.
More than that, I pity them because their kids will go places that these parents won't. And their kids might keep things from them, might say things like, "No, I didn't invite my parents to see me play in Boston, because you know how they are. They never go to things like that. There's no use even trying to teach them how to behave."
But, then again, that might not be so bad. I'd rather have my kids do things that I'm too ignorant to understand than have them be afraid to do things, because I never told them they were allowed. 12:05 PM # (24) comments
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Happy 2008Did you have a good New Year's Eve? We did. My boyfriend Tad and his friends threw a party. At first, no one RSVPed on our Evite, because they all had clubs or hotel parties to attend. So we assumed it'd just be our core group of four couples, minus the couple who just had a baby. I thought we'd just drink and play cards, you know?
But a couple of people showed up. Then, as the night went on, people would call one of the hosts and ask what we were doing. And the host would say, "We're staying home because we don't want to mess with parking and traffic and the weather and all that shit. Come over if you want." And, by midnight, we had a pretty sizeable group of people, many of whom I'd never met before, but all of whom were awesome. Has that ever happened to you -- that you throw a party and it lines up with the planets such that every single person attending is either smart, funny, sexy, or all three? No jerks, no vomiting? That's what happened. Everyone was awesome, even to the point that they helped us clean up. Tad went to bed at 5:30. I went to bed at 7 AM, only because the sun was coming up and the people I was hanging with in the garage had a long drive home.
It was fun. It was a good start to the new year.
Quick List of Recent Annoyances
I have to get this out of my system.
1. People who block the intersection on red lights.
2. People who look at your jacket and scarf and gloves and not only have to let you know that they aren't bothered by the cold, but that you're a wussy/whiner/baby for needing a jacket. Bonus annoyance: Flashing back to that 80 degree day last summer, when you were comfortable but that person was sweating profusely and whining about the heat, but you sympathized with her, because you're not an asshole.
3. People who bring up your good news in conversation, and then call you a show-off because of it. Like, "Have you lost weight? Show off!" or "Is that a new blouse? Show off!" or "Are you a generally happy person? Show off!"
4. People who go out of their way to look cool, and who ignore you at social gatherings because you don't look cool enough, and who pretend not to recognize you in public, even though you've met them more than once. Bonus annoyance: If/when those people later decide you're cool ("You write books? I'm trying to write a book! Who's your agent? We should have lunch!") and suddenly act all friendly, as if their previous rudeness never occurred.
5. Networking events, because they're completely filled with people like the ones described above, and because I don't want to walk around with cheese and cheap wine in my hands, being judged by these people. And I don't like bragging that I'm a writer ("Show off!"), especially not to people like that. I would rather sit home and write, or attend a party where everyone already knows I'm a writer and no longer cares, or stand up on stage and read my books to people who are there because they like my writing, and not because they think I can do something for their careers.
6. People who dislike you and go out of their way to show it in the pettiest way possible (by forwarding jokes and "inspirational" emails to everyone in the department but you, by bringing baked goods and personally informing every person in the department except you)... but then expect you to greet them in the halls and introduce them to your boyfriend and/or fiance. And make a face of disbelief when you ignore them. As if you would want to contaminate your boyfriend and/or fiance with the misery that exudes from their pores.
The planets have plans for you in 2008. Even Planet Pluto. Even Planet Chiron.
All my horoscopes, as well as the moon phase planning guide my dad gave me for Christmas, have been telling me that this is the year I will succeed... if I first examine my habits and attitudes, and get over something I've been reluctant to get over.
I'm thinking it's the networking thing. Planets Pluto, Chiron, and Blitzen, in my Fifth House of Marketing, are asking that I get over my reluctance to brag and start up some serious self-promotion. (Say it: "Show off! SHOW OFF!")
There are things I've wanted -- writerly things -- that I've been afraid to ask for because I don't think I'm good enough yet. Like grants, or writer jobs, or bigger speaking fees. Because, you know, I'm never good enough, in my own mind. (If I were already good enough, I wouldn't have to work so hard, would I? :) )
Meanwhile, though, I see people with far fewer credentials than me, and they're getting the things I want. They're like, "Hi! I'm Mindy! I'm a writer!! My friend published my poem in his zine, and I have a novel outline in a shoebox under my bed!!!" And they're now teaching Creative Writing at Purdue. Or whatever.
And now it's to the point where even I think it's ridiculous. You know? I'm like, "Gwen. Come on. Seriously. What the hell are you doing? Stand up, declare yourself, and get what's rightfully yours."
But... I don't want to. You know? That's a difficult thing for me. You think I'm a narcissist, and you're right, but I'm still insecure, and I still have deep-seated fears of people calling me a show off. What happened to the time when writers could just stay home, drinking and writing, mailing pages to their agents, and get paid? Offered jobs? Showered with appropriate amounts of recognition, no matter how hard they tried to hide?
Maybe those days never really existed. The more experience I get, the more I suspect that those myths were carefully manufactured by people who were really good at networking.
So that's my first resolution for this year, then. Get over the last vestiges of insecurity, and move on with my life. I might regret posting all this, later today. If so, that probably means it really needed to be said.
All those long paragraphs were written in order to weed out the anti-fans
, the haters, the misery spreaders, the train-wreck seekers, the ojo givers, the bad vibe emanators.
All of those people are gone now and their negative energy has dissipated. So I can tell you: I'm engaged. Tad and I are engaged now. It happened on my birthday. I am happy.
And that's all the news on that now. There's no date set. Therefore, I can't answer questions about any weddings, any babies, or any shared funeral plots. (His sister's literal first question, upon hearing the news: "But aren't your tubes tied?" My response, "Uh, no, they aren't. Wait... what? the? what?") (I love his sister, though. Love you, Susan!)
I will say this: Even though I'm a feminist and I believe that marriage is an outdated institution and that society pressures people to conform to ridiculous, meaningless traditions... etc.... I did get this little frisson of excitement when I realized that I now have every right to peruse bridal magazines.
Even though I've seen them before, and I think they're boring, and I know they're all from the perspective of a culture that's neither Tad's nor mine. So I don't really even want to look at them. But I like knowing that I can, now, without worrying about what other people think.
So that's my good news, y'all, and that's all for this entry. Hope y'all's 2008 is good so far. I hope your planets are all lining up.
Labels: my sex life, psychobabble, venting, writing
5:52 AM # (54) commentsWednesday, December 19, 2007
Thoughts on Fictional AspergersThere are two fictional characters I suspect of having Asperger's Syndrome, whether or not the actors were consciously portraying them that way:
1. Napoleon Dynamite.
2. Bill Haverchuck of Freaks and Geeks.
Or maybe I'm just projecting that onto them because I like those characters, and one of my sons has Aspergers, and I want to imagine my son living a life with a happy ending. Every week.
And now that I'm searching for links, I see that I'm not the first person to have expressed those thoughts:
- Napoleon Dynamite: Asperger's Disorder or Geek NOS?
- an amateur review in which some guy bashes Jared Hess for mocking "stupid, disgusting, socially retarded" characters, and the last commenter sets him straight
- Napoleon discussion on Aspies for Freedom
- In a review of the Freaks and Geeks DVD set, someone calls Bill Haverchuck the poster boy for Aspergers.
So, once again, know that you can count on Gwenworld.com for all your years-after-the-fact pop culture commentary! Here's some more:
I saw Shallow Hal last night, and it wasn't as bad as I'd assumed it would be, way back when it first came out in 2001. I guess I was just looking for an excuse to dislike Gwyneth Paltrow. That was before she wore that too-big-in-the-bust pink dress to the Oscars, and I began to feel bad for her, instead.
yays
I was in the dentist's office for about four minutes this morning, and now I'm good to go. (Tiny bump on my new temp bridge was throwing off my bite, wreaking havoc. Now it's gone.) Thank gosh. It wasn't until it was over that I realized how much I'd been dreading that visit. Oh, also, dreading things makes me grind my teeth. Which makes them hurt more. Duh. Vicious cycle ahoy!
I'm going to start a museum
in which I archive lame attempts at flirting by self-important Corporate American men.
Not because they flirt with me, but because I've been in a position to overhear the flirting, over and over and over again. Because they do it right in front of me, because I'm not pretty enough to be visible to them. Plenty of women can say the same thing, I'm sure -- that they overhear crass come-ons on a regular basis, that they feel disrespected by the men who do such things in professional settings... But would other women obsessively analyze and catalog the phenomemon, like I unwillingly find myself doing every week day? Probably not. Upon hearing any random failed come-on, I immediately, telepathically comprehend the would-be pick-up artist's secret fears, skeevy desires, and pathetic fetishes. I don't want to know, but I can't help it.
And that's why hearing that crap tortures me. No, not because I'm an old, fat, jealous shrew. Not because I'm a jealous lesbian. But because it's pretty depressing, hearing the silently screamed longings of men I can't admire.
Five Pound Allowance
Speaking of being a fat, jealous, lesbian shrew... I can't wait until Christmas Eve. Why? Because I'm going to eat baked goods on that day. Baked goods of my own making.
I've decided to allow myself to gain as much as five pounds, between Christmas and New Year's. Because isn't that, like, the legally ordained amount of weight that we gain that week in America? So I'm ready.
And then, by May, I plan to lose 20 pounds net. And then I will be done. Wish me luck.
And merry December 24th to y'all, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, and whether you eat baked goods or not. Have fun.
Labels: Aspergers, Christmas, pop culture, sexism, venting
11:57 PM # (9) commentsMonday, December 17, 2007
How is it Monday already?I have a long to-do list in my purse. Its primary purpose is as a focal point -- it gives me something to look at while I say, "How in the hell am I going to get everything done?"
My tooth hurts but I don't want to tell my dentist yet, because his wife just had a baby, so I don't want to give him bad news while he's still functioning on a half-tank of sleep. It's bad news because my teeth have become notoriously difficult to work on. I used to be the kind of person who wasn't afraid of dental appointments. Now I kind of dread them. It's a race for time -- catching and saving each tooth before it rots out of my head. I keep saying "Just give me full dentures now," but he won't. We are in the middle of excavating the left side of my mouth. I'm so used to blood and gore and drilling and needles now, it almost doesn't bother me anymore. Almost. I used to have nightmares about my teeth falling out. Now I think that would be a happy dream -- all my teeth picking up and leaving, just leaving me alone.
Oops. I didn't mean to talk about my teeth for so long. Oh well. Don't read that part.
We managed to have some good times over the weekend, though. Don't think it's all bad and I'm just going to complain at you. We went to the movies and cleaned our house and killed silverfish as a family, again. We all yelled at each other to stop being so effing negative. We opened the kids' Christmas gift last week (Guitar Hero III) and unlocked every song with our family-style fake-guitar-playing prowess. (I realized that I'm meant to be a bass player, not a lead guitarist. And that's just fine with me.) I told the kids that when I get my next book advance check, we're going to buy an XBox 360 and the Rock Band game. And then we will take over the world. I'm designing our band's logo right now, so we can stencil it on the bass drum. We don't have a band name yet, though. We toured Guitar Hero under the name Frostbight, but that was just for practice. Of course we will need something better than that for the XBox 360 stadium tour. The Partridge Family is already taken, and The Zepeda Family doesn't have the same ring. I don't know. I'll get back to y'all on that one.
leaves
The other day I gathered leaves from the cemetary by my work. I had to make up a practical excuse, so I said I would use them in a collage. I have two 16" x 20" canvases at home that I've painted very red. I said I'd put the leaves on those canvases, instead of painting yellow and orange gourds on them, like I'd planned. The leaves we gathered were burnt umber, gold, light olive, and a little bit of cinnabar red. My boyfriend didn't gather any, he just observed and checked my picks for insects. We walked around the graves, because I don't like stepping on the dead people. It makes me extremely uncomfortable to do so, because I suspect that they don't like it, either. But there were a lot of leaves on the edges of the plots, so everybody stayed tranquil. And I noted, for the zillionth time in my life, how very beautiful birch trees can be. Or maybe it isn't a birch, the one I always look at. It has white bark now and colorful leaves, but it also drops those balls that you step on to smash and unlock the downy, densely packed seeds. You know which ones I mean? The seed balls that look kind of like big, acorn-brown cherries? That's not a birch tree, is it? Or is it? I don't know, but I love that tree.
So I put the leaves in a plastic bag that I had in a desk drawer, and I took them home, and I hope they're not moldy now. Because I haven't had time to make the collage yet, of course. But, in the meantime, I've been thinking that I need to repaint the red canvases and make them blue like the sky, plus gray/white like the tree bark. Then I'll put on the leaves. Then the collages will clash with the colors of my living room. But that's okay. I'm okay with that. If they don't look right, I just won't put them in the living room. I do still want to make them, though.
I said I was going to make a bunch of gifts for Christmas. Made gifts only. But then I realized that I don't have a lot of people to trade gifts with (thank godfully, sigh, ha), and the ones I do trade with, I'm now worried that they won't like the gifts I have in mind to make. But really, what does it matter? How could they like it less than a plastic thing from Wal-Mart? And I've had this argument with myself, in my mind, 9,000 times now over the last 35 Christmases of my life. So I'll stop now. Move forward!
Here's some stuff about parenting teens now. (I wrote a subtitle about venting. Then I vented all this stuff, then realized it was mostly about parenting teenagers. So I came back here and changed the subtitle. Ta da.)
My children (oldest child, mostly) have finally reached the age where they've realized that I'm incredibly ignorant and have no business trying to raise them or even running my own household. And I'm supposed to argue my case -- prove that I am the smartest one, and therefore they have to listen to me and do what I say, always no matter what. Right? I mean, isn't that what you think, when you don't have kids or when your kids are still too young to question your authority?
You say, "I'm not going to let my kid talk to me like that. I will slap my kid across the mouth, and then she will know that I'm the boss."
Or whatever. You say all this stuff to yourself and your friends, about how awesome and fear-inspiring you're going to be, and how your children will be meek subjects who keep their noses clean and still get good grades. You see older parents at the mall with their teenagers, and their teenagers say, "No, Mom, that's stupid!" and you think back to the one time your mom finally lost her temper with you and slapped you across the mouth, or took away your Atari. Or the one time you eavesdropped and overheard someone tell your mom that you were a spoiled fucking brat, and your mom maybe reluctantly agreed, but still defended you because she loved you...
And you bleep over those painful memories and retroactively remove all the spoiled brattery from your own past, and raise your standards for the youth of today and for their parents. And you say... you say...
Whatever. It doesn't matter what you say, or what you said. Because you grow up and your kids grow up. And then they talk back to you, because they're smart and you're dumb, or because they're spoiled and you love them. And sometimes you do get mad, but sometimes you just let them, because you know by now that's what has to happen. Let the kids talk back sometimes. That's what they're supposed to do. Give them their chance. Maybe they really are smarter than you. You hope they are, anyway.
I say, "You're free to disagree with me or express your anger, but you need to do it respectfully. I gave birth to you, and for that alone, you need to respect me. Because, hello, that shit hurt. Y'all were big babies."
It used to upset me when they got angry. But now I'm okay with it. That's their job -- to be little fireballs of anger. Teenagers have to burn off a certain amount of anger, or else they won't grow, right? Anger is the byproduct of adolescence's chemical reactions, right? Seems that way. I kind of enjoy it now, seeing my oldest son get so pissed off. Even when he's mad at me. You go, little boy, I think. (Big boy. Little giant man, actually.) You get mad. It's your time to get angry now. I'm so proud of you for growing!
I listen to my kids argue and complain, and they're now reaching the hardest issues -- the ones it seems like I've only recently overcome, myself.
The first issue is boundaries/control/what you can expect from the people you love. "I helped you level-up your orc but you never help me level-up my druid," in their minds, sometimes equals "You don't love me. I love you too much. You aren't living up to your contract as my brother/friend/guild member." And I have to talk to them about what we owe each other versus what we do for each other out of love, and I try to teach them to set their own boundaries and take care of themselves. And I have to make sure I'm practicing what I preach in my own relationships. Do they see me treat my boyfriend, my friends, my family, the way I tell them to treat each other?
The second issue is wanting approval from others, and caring what others think, and meeting social contracts. One of my kids is so concerned with what his classmates think of him, it stresses him out all night and all weekend. And that one is so hard, because I remember the pain of worrying about that, but I don't remember what finally made me snap out of it. (Time? Exhaustion?) So I just repeat to him what my family said to me, and of course it works just as well, which is not at all. And then he trips me up with logic. He says, "You said I shouldn't worry about what other people think. Then how come I can't wear shorts and flip flops to the party? I don't care if people don't like it."
And y'all know how that goes. Y'all remember, either because your own kids have done it to you, or because you did it to your parents. Right?
I feel like I have to hurry and mature faster, myself. I have to stay several steps ahead of my kids, in terms of maturation and personal development, or else I'll become worthless to them. So I'm doing it. I'm growing.
Cliched syndicated columnist lesson: Watching the kids go through this crap is part of what makes me grow. Duh. Y'all know this already. I don't have to tell you. I'm just venting.
Next
I've been wanting to write something here about reader mail. I got a really angry email from a reader recently, and I wanted to post it and dissect it here, and talk about the patterns that occur in the hate mail that gets sent to me. How it's usually Christian fanatics who feel compelled to scold me, or older women who think I'm making some big mistake in my life, usually related to either dieting or sex. (I used to get a lot of mail from politically conservative men who wanted to lecture me, then assure me that I was still smart and pretty enough to be worth converting. But that's dropped off a lot. I guess I finally turned them off somehow. Darn.)
Then I felt bad about that, and thought that I should instead (or first, at least) talk about the nice mail I get, and how very, very nice it is. I wanted to tell y'all that some of your emails are so kind that I have a hard time responding to them, because I can't figure out what to say because "thank you" doesn't seem like enough. Some of y'all's emails, I put away in my Save box to read again another day.
And I thought that I'd tell y'all that I myself am very, very bad at writing emails to people I admire and whose art I enjoy. I think I'm the absolute master of overthinking my fan mail -- trying to make it sound flattering but not fawning, interested but not stalker-y. And so, instead, I manage to come off as weird, rude, or pointless. This is usually in emails to musicians or artists or other writers. So, after all that, I appreciate y'all's nice emails even more, and it always makes me smile when y'all express fear that you're coming off as stalker-y or crazy.
(You aren't. The general pattern I see is that, if you worry you sound crazy, then you aren't. Because the few crazy, stalker-y people who do write me on a regular basis? Never worry at all about how they sound. They just pour out the crazy with all the confidence in the world, then hit Send and move on their merry, crazy way.)
So, yeah. I wanted to tell y'all all that stuff, and now it looks like I did. Want to see the hate email now? It's the most messed-up one I've received in a while, and I'm going to post it with the sender's full name, and this is why:
1. It's a beautiful exercise in hypocrisy and nonsense, almost to the point that it has to be fictional, in which case the fiction is art and should be shared. Or...
2. If this person, Melissa Mahoney, is as mentally ill as she seems, then maybe someone who knows her will read this and get her some help. Or...
3. If this Melissa Mahoney is just incredibly immature, then maybe someone who knows her will see this and ridicule her in real life, and she'll then learn a valuable lesson about communicating with people on the Internet. Also...
4. If I get murdered any time soon, y'all can give the police Melissa's name, and, most of all...
5. This email does double-duty as advance promotion for my next book!
And now, here it is. My hate mail, by Christian tamale-maker (and aspiring author?) Melissa Mahoney, uncensored and unabridged:
fucking stupid ass bitch. Me and my family make tamales too by Gods grace. FUCK your 'petty judgemental evil thoughts' you fucking antiChrist bitch. dont say 'Jesus Christ'! about some book you like. dont take my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ's Name in vain. He is Almighty God, and He saves. God gives me deep, merciful, non-judgemental thoughts by His grace. you shouldnt have judgemental evil thoughts. judge not, lest ye be judged. when you judge others with your evil thoughts, God will judge you. God has mercy upon us, and we should have mercy upon all by Gods grace, and not judge one another but LOVE one another by His grace. who the fuck would want to buy a childrens book for their children from you. Jesus Christ saves.
Thanks, Melissa, for reminding everyone that I have a children's book coming out in May, and it is called Growing Up with Tamales, it's in English and also in Spanish, and it is suitable for young readers, as well as for reading aloud to children who are too small or lazy to read it themselves. Email me your mailing address if you are an educator, librarian, reviewer, or book blogger and you'd like an advance copy to review.
:) 5:44 AM # (25) comments
Saturday, 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) commentsWednesday, November 21, 2007
gimmicky "diet" bookI went to the bookstore the other day and came across a diet book called Skinny Bitch. Or Skinny Bitches, Skinny Bitch Diet... something like that. I had to flip through it to see what the gimmick was. The beginning was "tough love" type insults. They said that "fat slobs" had to admit that they had a problem, get off their lazy asses, quit eating so much, etc. And it went on in that vein for a few chapters, telling the reader to exercise more and eat less, with liberal peppering of the words fat, slob, bitch, lazy, etc.
"How long can this book sustain itself?" I wondered.
In the middle, there was a chapter about meat being fattening. And then, with no warning whatsoever, the book became a hardcore vegan tract. Flipping through it there in the aisle, I saw the usual arguments about cruelty and health issues. They even busted out and told the reader that she didn't need that much protein survive. "Look at giraffes!" the authors said. "They don't need that much protein!" (That's usually the part where I stop listening to vegan evangelists in real life--when they suggest that my dietary requirements should be the same as an herbivores.)
So the book got hardcore vegan in the middle. Then, for Act Three, the authors apologized for the ugly words and the tough love, and said they only did it out of genuine concern for the reader. Then, there was a lot of "you go, girl!" sort of truisms, about living for yourself and not waiting for love to change your life, and only being able to change yourself, and loving yourself whether you're fat or thin... and that men would love you if you were beautiful inside as well as out, and that being beautiful inside was only possible if you were "cruelty free." (I.e., if you don't eat meat.)
And this is what I have to wonder. What is the point of browbeating insecure straight women into becoming vegans? If you believe in veganism, why aren't you browbeating everyone equally? Do the people behind this book believe that insecure straight women, once they become vegans, will influence everyone else in the world to follow their example?
I didn't understand it. It was puzzling to me. I was, and remain, puzzled.
I am secretly a man.
That's what people think about me, when I don't act the way they believe a woman should. I am secretly a lesbian, a robot, an alien, an animal, or crazy.
No, you guys. I'm a woman. Really! I just don't always feel like getting all emotional with you. I don't want to have personal dramas--at least not between 8 and 5. I just want to do the work I've agreed to do for money. And then go home.
I save my emotions. I'm running out of them, as I get older, so I save what remains for the weekends and spend them on little things. You know? Art, music, commercials with sad music... my own children, my own family, my own romance.
Don't take it personally, that I don't get emotional with you. Don't think I'm abnormal. I'm just conserving resources. Please understand, and help me. I'd do the same for you.
[censored]
I just wrote, deleted, rewrote, and deleted a bunch of stuff about prettiness. About losing weight, becoming prettier, people hating pretty people, people treating pretty people like objects or possessions, people stalking and harassing pretty people, pretty people becoming defensive and protective of themselves, other people mistaking pretty people's defense mechanisms for haughtiness and conceit, people who hide their own prettiness out of fear, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, attempts to change one's negative mental associations with prettiness and weight loss, fervent wishing to be judged by my actions and not my looks, the fact that prettiness, in spite of everything, is still valuable and not something you would ever really willingly lose...
... the fact that I can't write anything about any of these things because it's obnoxious, it sounds like Andie McDowell smirking "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," the fact that you're not allowed to say aloud that you might believe you're pretty, sexist socialization, my grandmother flying down from heaven and slapping my face, women being damned if they do or if they don't, possible self delusion, annoying self censorship, annoying fear. 2:51 PM # (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) commentsWednesday, October 31, 2007
The Price of Working with TimbalandEveryone wants to work with Timbaland but not everyone considers his price.
Timbaland (sounds like Timberland, one of Super Target's house brands) is one of the best hip-hop producers in the business. His price for producing your song? You have to let him rap on it.
The hidden fee attached to that price? If you are a woman, Timbaland's rap will be about wanting to have sex with you.
The thing is, Timbaland isn't a very good rapper. Also, his raps about wanting to have sex with you don't always mesh well with the rest of your lyrics.
Consider carefully. Accept Timbaland's beats if you must, but don't let him mess up your song.
If You Dislike Me
If you dislike me, or if I've done something to offend you... there's nothing I can do about it if I don't know.
You know?
You may think that ignoring me is a way to let me know what I've done wrong. But it isn't. When you walk by and purposely say "Good morning!" to everyone in the room but me, I do realize that you're being passively bitchy to me. But I still don't know why. And, as time goes on, I stop caring why. I figure, if you had a good reason to be upset, surely you'd just tell me. But obviously you don't have a good reason, or your reason is something you're embarrassed to admit.
Same thing goes on the Internet. If you only know me online, and you dislike me, and you make it a point to say vaguely bitchy things about me on other people's forums, or on your own blog... Then, so what? What am I supposed to do about it? If you had a real grievance, you'd have mentioned it by now, right? If not -- if you've just disliked me for some secret reason for years and years on end, and you feel the need to make meowy little comments in places I may or may not see, then I can't care. Sorry, but it's just too much trouble. I can't make the time if you won't meet me half way.
Try harder! More hints, please! I don't know what your problem is. And I'm starting to think your problem has nothing in the world to do with me.
Astrological Coincidence
I wrote the preceding bits of this entry last night. Then, this morning, my horoscope tells me:
It may seem as if an overly emotional person is holding back his or her feelings. On one hand you are relieved because you don't have the time or inclination to get involved in someone else's drama. On the other hand, though, you may be annoyed that people cannot just say what's on their mind. If it feels like others are being passive-aggressive, encourage them to get it out into the open where it will be more easily handled.
Thank you, Rick Levine of Tarot.com, for reading my mind.
Labels: pop culture, venting
5:47 AM # (12) commentsWednesday, 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
Monday, October 08, 2007
I like autumn because of the holidays.But I know other people like it because of TV. New shows! New seasons! A couple of my coworkers have been very happy in the past few weeks, plotting out schedules of what they'll watch.
I caught the fever. I found a few shows. I set my DVR to record Bionic Woman and that show about the Geico cavemen.
The pilot for Bionic Woman sucked. But I set my TV to record the second episode, because sometimes the pilot isn't representative of the show as a whole.
The second episode sucked. Predictable plot, hackneyed cliches, unrealistic story arc timing, lame dialogue. It was like the producers said, "You know, we've already spent money on hot actresses and special effects. That should be enough. Go with the budget writers."
"Let's never watch this again," I told my boyfriend. But, actually, we'll probably watch it again. Why? Because one of the actresses is Katee "Starbuck" Sackhoff, who we like. And, guess what? Starbuck is sleeping with an Asian man in this one. "It's about time I get to see an Asian brother get laid on TV," said my boyfriend, who happens to be Asian. I was like, meh. I can get that at home. But, okay, we'll watch one more episode.
Meanwhile... I'd been hoping that Cavemen would be good. But how could it, right? We're talking about TV here, where bad writing and hackneyed cliches abound. So, no matter how funny the commercials were, there was no way the show could be good. The producers would be certain to ruin it, just like they ruin everything else.
And then, we watched it, and it was so, so funny. We were cracking the hell up. Not only was it funny, but it addressed some interesting culture issues, such as interracial dating and sexual stereotypes. But in a funny way. Oh, and bonus: One of the guest stars is Super Terry, from Reno 911.
So, yeah. We loved it. Therefore, I predict that it'll be cancelled before the end of the season. You know how good shows always get canceled.
Guess what, I just discovered a musician who everyone else on Earth is already listening to!
I just got the MIA album called Kala. MIA is fronted by a Sri Lankan woman named Maya. I thought I was discovering something completely underground, because I heard her on KPFT's Thursday morning World Beats program. (I listen to that every week on the way to work. Then, on the way home every Thursday, I turn KPFT back on and listen to GenerAsian. Those are my two fave radio programs.)
So, I turned on the radio halfway through this song, a song so exciting that I knew, instantly, that buying the album for it would change my life. So I called the DJ (and won Greek Festival tickets -- yay!) and he told me, "That's MIA, and the song is 'Boyz.'"
And then I told all my friends, and they were like, "Oh, yeah, MIA. That's good stuff. You know she's from Sri Lanka, right?"
So I got the album, and I love it. And I looked at the reviews on Amazon, and they're full of people saying, "I'm too old to like this, but..." And then, of course, there are all the reviews complaining that MIA was good when it was underground, but now it sucks. Then, there are those by male reviewers who want to give poor little Maya their advice on how to be a better musician. Hilarious. But seriously, go buy the album.
Children can be like animals.
Y'all know that, because you've read Lord of the Flies.
Children like to conform with the pack, and when they sense difference in one of their own -- especially difference coupled with weakness -- some children are prone to attack. Especially, I'm imagining, children of animal-like parents who value conformity.
I already knew this, not just from reading Lord of the Flies, but also from personal experience. Not just mine, but that of my son. His Asperger's seems to be an asshole magnet. Once certain kids realize he's different, that he doesn't have the same instinctively ingrained compulsion to conform as the rest of them, they start the bullying.
Usually, when my son comes home and tells me about it, all he can do is report the facts of what happened, without understanding why. ("They called me a faggot, but I'm not gay. I told them I'm not gay, but I guess they couldn't hear me or they didn't believe me. They kept calling me faggot, and then I guess I made them mad, because then they started hitting me.")
I understand why. Children are animals. Some more than others. Especially the ones who were bred from animals. Animal children grow up and mate and breed new animals. New assholes, new bullies. It's a cycle as old as evolution, way older than your middle school or mine. What can you do about it? I don't know. Don't breed with animals. Don't raise animals. Is that enough? No. They don't need you. They'll keep breeding on their own, spawning and eating and rolling in mass-produced pap, hitting their kids when they don't conform. It doesn't matter what you do, I don't think. It's simply the way of our world. "Can't we just kill them?" you say. I don't think so. There's not enough time, energy, legal precedent. Plus, I don't want to kill anyone. I'm not enough of an animal.
My boyfriend always says it's lucky that my son is big for his age, because that probably keeps him from being physically attacked as much he might be, otherwise.
This kid wasn't so lucky: Attack On Autistic Boy, 11, Videotaped.
Sorry for the downer.
But it had to be said, I felt. Let's try to end on a good note now.
It's almost Halloween. I'm going to be a fairy. We went to the costume shop to consider the alternatives, but all it did was inspire me to move forward with my fairy-being plans. We went to the local big-box store, then, and got materials to put on the $2.32 thrift store full slip that will form the base of my costume.
What are you going to be for Halloween? What are you going to do? Did you see Martha Stewarts' double-sided "Good Things/Bad Things" October magazine issue? Normally I'm not into her too much, but this Halloween issue is beautiful. Go see it.
Did you go to the Greek festival, here in Houston? Did you see me there? Did you eat baklava and drink lots of wine? I did.
Are you ready for fall? Are you ready for Christmas? We'll talk more about that later. Until then...
Labels: Aspergers, Halloween, pop culture, venting
6:36 AM # (6) commentsFriday, October 05, 2007
Something AnnoyingRecently, on the Facebook of a friend's Facebook friend, I read something annoying.
This person had a question posted under the picture of face. Something like, "Why is it okay to talk about your belief in yoga or vegetarianism, but it's not okay for me to talk about my love for Jesus Christ?"
I'm going to pretend that this person meant that question seriously, and that he wasn't just pulling the red herring victim routine that is so fabulously common amongst combative conservatives. And I'm going to answer this person's question.
One: It's okay for you to talk about your love for Jesus Christ. You have that right.
Two: It is exactly as annoying for you to talk about your love for Jesus Christ as it is for anyone else to talk about their belief in yoga.
Here is where you Jesus evangelists go wrong -- you don't know how to have normal, interesting, polite conversations. Also, you missed that part of 7th Grade Language Arts where we learned about "persuasive essays."
Here is how you could have an interesting conversation about your beliefs:
Example 1:
Joe Blow: Wanna have breakfast?
You: No, thanks. I'm on the way to church.
Joe: Aw, dude. You go to church?
You: Yeah.
Joe: I can't go for that. That's a waste of my Sunday, you know?
You: I like going. It takes an hour, but it makes me feel better after I've gone.
Joe: For real?
You: Yeah. Let me know if you ever wanna check it out, and you can go with me.
[Joe: No, thanks.
or
Joe: Okay, I will.]
Example 2:
Joe Blow: ... and she said she was gonna start doing yoga. Can you believe that?
You: Oh, cool.
Joe: No, dude, she said yoga. That's lame.
You: You think so? I like yoga.
Joe: You do yoga? Uh, why?
You: I like it. It makes me feel better.
Joe: For real.
You: Yeah. Let me know if you wanna check it out some time, and you can go with me.
See that? Okay, now, here's how to be an asshole.
Example 1:
Joe: ... and then I went to Banana Republic, and they were having a sale.
You: Joe, when's the last time you went to church?
Joe: What?
You: I used to be like you, but then I found Jesus Christ, and my life has improved 100%.
Joe: What? What do you mean, like me?
You: Come to church, Joe. Come change your life. Make your life awesome in the light of Jesus's love, like mine is.
Example 2:
Joe: Wanna go to Jack in the Box?
You: No, because I don't eat meat, because eating meat is wrong.
Joe: Oh, uh... sorry.
You: You should stop eating meat. When I was eating meat, I was fat, lazy, and a sexist, capitalist fascist. Now that I'm vegan, I have a clarity on life that meat-eaters can't begin to understand. You should stop eating meat, Joe. It's disgusting.
Joe: Uh... I just remembered that I have to run errands at lunch. See ya.
There you go, buddy. You can talk about your love for Jesus all you want, but you can't make me enjoy a rude, annoying conversationalist. Because that's what it's always about, isn't it? You don't just want to talk about Jesus. You want to talk about Jesus and have everyone on earth agree with whatever you say. You can't always have what you want, though. (Especially not if you're annoying.)
Now you know, Facebook friend of my Facebook friend. I hope my answer to your question is helpful. You're welcome. 9:15 AM # (16) comments
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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