bebe Me

Yes, I apologized to Dirk

2011-12-08T22:03:00.000-06:00

Well, if you're going to a hockey game for a girls' night, you might as well enjoy ALL the perks. And this is how you pick the night:

HER: I really want to see them play the Red Wings.

ME: Oh, do you like the Red Wings?

HER: Well. Red Wings… Detroit… KID ROCK.

ME: Oooh, my NHL crush plays for the Caps now. Are they coming?

Because deep in her soul, Senior Designer is just as sick and wrong as I am

2011-11-20T18:01:00.000-06:00

As a professional creative, you need to know that you can get a good dose of hardboiled honesty about your work.

There’s the kind of honesty that comes in the form of your whipsmart, southern boss peering at you over her glasses: the nonverbal, “Really? REALLY?” (And secretly, you kind of totally live for those such moments.)

Then there’s the stupefied silence in a room, immediately after you've read one of your headlines aloud.

But what you need the very most is the co-worker to whom you tell EVERY sick and wrong idea you have just so she’ll throw you out of her office with a, “WHAT? Is WRONG with you?"

In my case, that last one is the Senior Designer. She whose honesty spills over into non-work issues too. Like in this little exchange:

ME: But if Dirk knew me. I mean, really REALLY knew me and my personality…

SENIOR DESIGNER: Then he’d RUN FOR THE HILLS.

The trees have spoken

2011-11-05T11:46:00.000-05:00

So there I was, running and enjoying a little drizzling rain. And as I ran under a row of low-hanging branches, a tree threw up on me.

A shower of tiny black specks all over my face, chest and arms that stuck to my damp skin for the rest of the run.

Dear tree,
Ok, you’re right. I could be more conscious about how much I print at work. But I recycle. And, by the way, those art directors print WAY more than I do.
Love, bebe Me

High as a runner

2011-11-03T12:53:00.000-05:00

Something happens when I see my running shoes. I start hearing things. Soles hitting pavement. Inhaling, exhaling. Wind, cars, dogs barking from behind a fence. Someone else’s soles, someone else’s breathing. The little beep from my watch at every mile. My iPod.

And then all I want to do is put on those shoes and head out so I can hear it for real. And so that I can hear the best sound of all: the noise in my brain (yes, that giant fluffy bundle of pink). Thoughts flowing, connecting, sorting themselves out. Or sometimes just a single thought: keep running.

Sometimes running feels like celebrating. Sometimes healing. Sometimes release. Sometimes I have to run until I feel like a normal person again. Sometimes it’s just making it to the next mile. Sometimes it’s perfectly ordinary.

And I love it.

I don’t know why some people hate it and some people love it. I didn’t ever really have to learn. But I’d understand if you didn’t believe me. I never believed that falling in love is feeling like you’ve known a stranger all your life and being sad to say goodbye at the end of a date. Until it finally happened to me about 100 years after everyone else. And I’m still waiting to believe that you can suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of ethnic identity just by visiting a country, like oh I don’t know, Asia.

But since the first time I started doing laps around the little YMCA track in college 15 years ago, I’ve never doubted this great love of running. Of course, back then, I was also adding mileage haphazardly, not running with a group of more experienced runners, and not consulting with a running coach about my form and training. Shortly after, I started having pain in my hip flexors and my shins and was advised by a health professional to drop the running.

Now, of course, I wished I’d done a little more research and learned how to get rid of/manage the pain and continued to run. But I was just recovering from an eating disorder and was afraid that I was destroying the body that I was trying to learn to respect again. Which is when I started my love affair with the elliptical trainer and every other kind of cross-training I could get my legs on.

But I’d still think about running now and then. I even ran some. A 5K here and there. But it wasn’t until the end of last year when I was spending a lot of time with runners that I found myself thinking about it even more. And cursing my right knee that had started hurting about 8 years ago (from something unrelated) and had never stopped.

Then at the very end of December, God & the Universe and I were in yet another tussle over my life. I was sad and confused and I couldn’t stop thinking about soles hitting pavement. So I just put on my shoes and ran. This time, I was running to feel like a normal person again. I figured if my knee started screaming, I’d just stop. But it didn’t. When I came back in, I felt calmer. And my knee? No worse than before.

So running is now back in my life. I had a brief 2-month hiatus due to hip flexor pain, which lit a fire under me to do all those things I didn’t do before. I joined a run club with a certified running coach who made one tiny tweak to my form and introduced me to (cue angelic music from heaven here): The Foam Roller. The result being more miles, no more hip flexor pain and incredibly, less knee pain.

And a few weeks ago, on a rare afternoon run, a lovely butterfly fluttered right into my path. I smiled, laughed out loud and thanked God & the Universe for the beautiful gift of running.

Have you considered adopting a poor, starving artery?

2011-10-19T21:45:00.000-05:00

This weekend, there was an almost-full bottle of a lovely, dry red wine in my fridge. And it wasn't going to keep forever. So what's a vegetarian with an extremely low tolerance to do? Google "vegetarian recipes with red wine" of course. And then spend an entire Sunday afternoon cooking delicious French dishes with a lot of shallots and a lot (and I do mean a lot) of butter. Oh my, the butter. Rich, creamy butter that made my taste buds think they’d reached palatal nirvana.

And as I scooped up another chanterelle mushroom in a red wine and butter sauce, I’m pretty sure I heard my arteries gasp.

Which is when I told those spoiled little blood vessels to chill out and be grateful. And to think of all those starving arteries that live in vegans.

Like an afternoon with a stack of drawing paper and a box of Crayola 64

2011-10-14T11:23:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong that I ran around the office this morning with one of the season’s new throws, demanding that everyone smell it because it smells like crayons? And by that I mean it smells SO. GOOD.

Come listen to the story of a city named Dallas

2011-10-12T17:45:00.000-05:00

My friend C came to visit me the last weekend of January. I met C at the music conservatory and we became immediate friends when we were brushing our teeth in the dorm bathroom as freshmen and discovered that she grew up in the same upstate New York town where my cousins lived.

Now, she lives in upper Manhattan where she’s been attending medical school and playing the violin. And when she asked if she could come visit during a rare break from her rotations, I was thrilled. I’d finally get to show her around the city I love. The city about which she’s heard me rhapsodize since the days we wrote papers about string quartet scores and bundled up in four layers plus a down coat and ran all four blocks to a coffee shop. Because even though it was midnight and 8 degrees outside, we really needed a slice of flourless chocolate cake.

The first day of her visit was a perfect 78 degrees. She whipped out her summer shoes as soon as she got off the plane and my heart swelled up with pride as she gushed about the blue skies and snowless roads during the drive back to my place. As we were driving, we came up to a great big sign on the freeway that I pass almost every day and don’t even blink an eye. As we drove closer, C couldn’t help but notice it and read it slowly out loud: THE PRESIDENT GEORGE BUSH TURNPIKE. Each word slowly sucking all that pride out of my heart. As she sat there, not really knowing how to react, I cleared my throat and tried to keep the sheepishness out of my voice as I said, “Right. So, um. Welcome to Texas.”

And about 48 hours later, the blue skies turned gray. There was the threat of snow, there was the threat of ice. There was a New Yorker in my living room, trying desperately to get an earlier flight out of this weather-schizo town. And I said in a slightly more sheepish voice, “What? You mean you want to leave so early?”

The next morning, after I drove her back to the airport on those same roads, now covered in white, she called me from the airport. “My flight’s delayed,” she said. “The runway is covered in snow and ice. And it’s the craziest thing. They don’t have tow plow trucks here. But you won’t believe what they DO have. You know those little tow attachments that your brother’s best friend in high school would attach to a pickup truck to plow backyards for cash? They have one of THOSE on a red pickup truck, trying to clear all that snow so we can fly back to New York. Can you BELIEVE that?” After which, she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

And even though I kinda had absolutely no idea what the hell she was talking about, I knew enough to immediately hear banjo music in my head. The perfect soundtrack to a little red pickup truck at the DFW airport with a home plow attached, trying to do something about that there darn snow. This being C’s last impression of my beloved city. I think I might’ve managed to squeak out, “Well, I hope you enjoyed it. You come back now.”

the rockin' new job

2011-10-11T22:00:00.000-05:00

This being the post for which I finally wrote that last sentence (or two) today. After having started it in February, when I started the job. And I believe I wrote the middle paragraphs sometime during the summer. So I guess it's about time this post meets the world:

Well, it’s been quite a year. The Superbowl came to my hometown. There was a large patch of ice right outside my garage door that didn’t melt for two weeks because the icy, snowy winter storms couldn’t decide whether it wanted to go or stay in this exotic place called Dallas. I joined Netflix. I fell in love with and bought two pairs of Steve Madden distressed cowboy boots.

And, I wondered for a little while if I had a bona fide addiction to being Stupid New Girl.

Because unbelievably, after being Stupid New Girl three times in the recent past, I found myself accepting a new job. AGAIN. I swear I am not a flake. I wasn’t even looking. In fact, this new company of mine had turned me down last summer. And when they contacted me again, with an even better opportunity, I politely declined. Until I couldn't stop thinking about it for the next two weeks. Because, you see, this new company is not an ad agency, but a retail corporation whose brand is one that genuinely excites a writer. This writer, at least. Its products are inherently storied. The voice is fun, fresh, sassy and stylish. I just couldn’t let it pass.

So here I’ve been, deep in the depths of brilliant home fashion. Finding inspiration from art and women's fashion. Collaborating with wonderfully talented art directors on everything from the color stories in our glossy print catalogs to clever brand messages, played out in animated digital ads, to headline-driven outdoor posters and urban boards. Immersing myself in trends. Getting paid to think and write under the direction of a whipsmart, southern smartass Creative VP who’s not afraid to shoot down an idea as fast as she’ll fall in love with the next.

I have gone, as ad people might say, to the CLIENT SIDE (insert dark, ominous music here). And if the dark side means better hours so you can live your life, a sample room to devour, a photo studio to breathe life into our ideas, and writing that feels like a perfect mix of advertising, blog writing and magazine writing, well then, get out a floor lamp from the new fall collection. Because the dark side is beginning to feel a lot like home.

The year thus far

2011-10-10T12:52:00.000-05:00

Four things have happened so far this 2011 that have changed my life:

1. I got a rockin’ new job.
2. I picked up running again after a 15-year hiatus.
3. I traveled to Asia for the first time.
4. I became goth and now read all of my teen fiction books in a cave in the backyard. Just kidding. I don’t even have a backyard. Ok, ok, not really. But, well, what do you think the last thing is? Of course it’s this: THE MAVS. THE MAVS. DIRK, DIRK, DIRK, DIRK, DIRK!

So all 1 of you that read this thing (hello Blog Conscious!), get ready to hear some stories.

And yes, I absolutely went to the store (the RIGHT store) to get myself a work-appropriate one.

2011-10-06T16:10:00.000-05:00

In anticipation of our Red River Rivalry tailgate party at work tomorrow.

ME: Well, crap. I don’t have any work-appropriate Texas shirts.

CO-WORKER: No worries, you can just borrow one of my OU shirts.

ME: You are so so sweet and generous. Can I, you know, alter the shirt just a tiny bit before wearing it?

CO-WORKER: Only if you add more rhinestones to the OU.

ME: Like in the shape of a longhorn?

Blog Conscious

2011-10-06T15:42:00.000-05:00

I had lunch with my Blog Conscious last week. Also known as my talented, charming, Ben-Folds-Evangelist friend who is mother to a 6-month-old son. A 6-month-old son who kinda always looks as if he’s about to share his thoughts on the pros and cons of baby subcultures in this day and age.

But anyway, Blog Conscious, gave me the look. The look that reminds me that it’s been 9 months since I’ve last posted and there is at least one person out there that reads this cerebral candy. So I responded with a meek, “But see, I wrote this one post. It’s just that I can’t think of the right last sentence.”

And it dawned on me that since I last posted, Blog Conscious brought life into this world, went back to work, wrote her birth story, and successfully found a way to articulate to me how it feels to be suddenly thrust into parenthood without making my eyes glaze over. All of that and she still cares to think of me and my silly blog. And I? Can’t even write one bloody sentence to finish a post from February?

Well, this is the day that I return to blogging. Thank you, Blog Conscious, for giving me an inspiring kick in the skinny jeans.

Ditzy with a little ditz on top

2011-03-31T13:19:00.000-05:00

Please note the date of this post before delighting in the following IM exchange:

ME: Ditzy moment of the day: Burst into my boss’s office and said, “Happy March 30th!”

SMART FRIEND: ha ha ha! A little late, aren’t you?

ME: Did you mean early? Or are you continuing the joke?

Pause

SMART FRIEND: huh?

Very long pause as I talked it through to myself in my head.

ME: SECOND DITZY MOMENT OF THE DAY

New year. New chutzpah.

2011-01-04T13:49:00.000-06:00

Well, y’all. I lived on the edge this new year. Tossed all that 2010 caution aside, looked common sense in the eye and said, “Hell yeah, I’m going to wear a white leather jacket to a concert on New Year’s Eve. Standing room only.” Ok, so I had to dodge 1 or 20 drunkenly spilled beers and a few drops of champagne. And slowly inch away from the frenzied dancing of the guy who’d remembered to get beer, but forgotten to wear deodorant. But by golly, when that very drunk girl (and her entire body weight) fell shoe-first onto the top of my very exposed foot, her drink stayed right there in her glass. And as I bent over in excruciating pain, I gasped, “SEE COMMON SENSE? The concert’s almost over. And my jacket? STILL WHITE.”

You needed some inspiration for the new year, didn’t you? You’re welcome.

First day of the real, full-time, PERMANENT job

2010-09-18T15:08:00.001-05:00

Guess who’s not an intern anymore? That’s right, I’m back to plain old Stupid New Girl. New agency, new stories and holy bloody hell, I have my own cubicle. It’s been so long since I haven’t sat at a temporary space that I kind of forgot what to do with so much of my very own dull, gray wall space. But as the morning wore on, I felt a familiar comfort or two. Frozen air-conditionified nose and toes by mid-morning. The sweet shivers up and down my spine every time I open a new Word doc. Some sort of office technology (voicemail in this case) that abhors me already.

But the most important one happened before I even got to the office. There I was, driving and rocking out to my Let’s go kick some ass! tunes. Excited, pumped up. I was ready, damn it, so ready!

Ready to make a wrong turn. Two minutes away from the new office and right where two highways meet with all kinds of weird loops and turns. Outstanding! And strangely comforting. Because after three years of life upheaval, my ditzy mistakes still remind me of who I am and have always been.

And thank God. This blog would be awfully boring otherwise.

I wrote this post on the actual first day of my new job, which was about a month ago. But no worries - at one month, I'm still new, stupid and girl. And I promise to keep the stories coming.

Ready to move on. To first grade.

2010-08-12T15:05:00.000-05:00

Just another typical father-daughter exchange.

ME: Why would you have a layover all the way over there? Asia is east of here.

DAD: West.

ME: East. You know, the east meets west thing.

DAD: Asia is to the west.

ME: I’ve seen a map. North America is way on the west and Asia is way on the east.

DAD: You’re talking about one of those flat maps?

ME: Yeah, like that big one in our house growing up. North America is one the left side and Asia’s on the right side.

DAD: Left? Right?

ME: Yes.

DAD: bebe Me. The EARTH. IS ROUND.

And I haven’t gotten my wise self up off my knees ever since

2010-08-03T21:08:00.001-05:00

You may remember when I was passing off assignments from my writing class as original blog posts. One of the assignments I didn’t post was a letter to my future self. Partly because I thought it might be fun to post it in the future, but mostly because I’d forgotten to do the assignment.

I tried to write a letter to my past self once, but writing a letter to someone that dumb wasn't so fun after all. But writing a letter to a hypothetically wiser version of myself? Kind of intriguing. I started making mental notes as soon as it was assigned. I had a million ideas flying around in my head. But on the day we were supposed to bring it in a stamped, addressed envelope so that our teacher could mail it to us sometime in the future, I was hanging around in the creative lab when a girl in my class asked me about my letter. I cursed my inner ditz, looked at the time and ripped a 4X6 sheet of paper out of my notebook. And this is what I scribbled:

Hello there you (me),

You’ve got to be smarter now than you were on Nov. 25, 2008, that being the day you were supposed to turn in this letter to yourself and then you forgot because you are ridiculous. So this is all you get.

Get down on your knees and thank God and the Universe that you are NOT. IN. SCHOOL.

Get to work.

I got this little missive in the mail recently. I remembered something about having a whole lot of brilliant ideas that I’d planned to write about until I ran out of time. But I couldn’t remember any of those ideas.

And then I thought, Ideas, Schmideas. That second paragraph nailed it.

Not yet a woman

2010-08-02T17:50:00.000-05:00

A little earlier this summer, I was lounging on my sofa watching TV when I felt a snap! under my shirt. Startled, I sat up in utter confusion. Because the snap felt a lot like my bra had just broken in the front. MY bra. The one that covers my very flat chest. A flat chest that apparently just BUSTED OUT OF ITS BRA.

Well, I thought, I’m finally turning into a woman.

So a few days later, I went to Victoria’s Secret.

ME (with unbridled pride in my new womanliness): Hello. I need a new bra. You see, I busted out of my old one.

SALESPERSON: Ah. I see. What size do you wear?

ME: 34B

SALESPERSON (eyeing my bust suspiciously): Ok, but it looks like you might need a bigger cup size.

ME (beaming): Wonderful. Well, I’ll show it to you when I’ve tried it on.

Standing in the fitting room, wearing one of the 34B bras.

ME: Well, here it is. What do you think?

SALESPERSON: Ah yes - you’re going to need a smaller cup. I’ll just bring around some A cups.

Nope, still not a woman.

That’s alright because I like the way it hurts (the last sappy intern moment)

2010-08-01T19:25:00.001-05:00

About a year ago, I graduated. I had a complete portfolio. It won a national award. My teachers told me I knew what I was doing. Professionals told me I knew what I was doing. I told myself I knew what I was doing. But actually, I wasn’t all that certain if I, you know, knew what I was doing.

It took me sixteen years to trust my gut as a violinist. And I still remember the moment it happened. It was right before I graduated from college. I was being torn down and insulted by my studio teacher. He was not a teacher I’d chosen. He was a teacher who had been brought in to fill the position of the teacher I did choose. She’d passed away the year before. And as I stood there, listening to this new teacher who’d known me for less than one year, I suddenly knew. I just knew. That he was a violinist with an opinion that was different from mine. Not a teacher who I had to believe because I didn’t know enough yet.

As soon as I started the creative program in grad school, I started wondering when I’d feel that way as a copywriter. It didn’t happen when I graduated. Or won awards. It didn’t happen when I landed the internship and started working. I felt ok, confident enough. But I didn’t know.

Until the last part of my internship when two things happened. The first thing was that I created an ad campaign. Not for work, but for my personal portfolio. Just me and my art director from school who I’d roped into helping me in exchange for inordinate amounts of coffee and Eatzi’s. This was not just a new campaign, but one that included more than a paragraph of copy. One that veered from my usual funny, sassy or tongue-in-cheek into the rarely explored heartfelt. It was unfamiliar and it was painful. I spent evenings and weekends staring at a blank page, breaking out into a mournful “I SUCK” or two (hundred). Then starting all over again. And again. And again. You know, the usual. But this time, my art director and I couldn’t count on office hours and weekly in-class critiques to help us annihilate the bad ideas and play “keep or kill” with my copy. We had to trust our instincts.

Then it came time to show it to someone else. I chose to unveil this new unfunny, uncheeky campaign to the mid-level copywriter on my team at work. My heart was so far up my throat that I could taste my aorta. Unfortunate since I also felt like I was going to lose a week’s worth of lunch. I braced myself for bloody murder. Which is why I wanted to write her into my will when she liked it. Really genuinely liked it. And everyone else that saw it – including the president of the agency – liked it too. And that is when I started to trust.

The second thing that happened was alarmingly similar to the violin situation. Except that this time, my portfolio and ideas were being lacerated by someone I have long admired and respected. Even revered. So you’d think I’d have been on my knees, peeling fragments of my heart off the floor. But I wasn’t. And somewhere amid hearing the word “WRONG” over and over again, that feeling finally came. I thought of all the work I’d been doing at my internship. Work that was accepted, purchased, produced. I thought of the new campaign that had just bled out of the pores of my brain. And I looked at the portfolio that he found so vile. And I still liked it.

Then I knew. This person is not a god. He is a talented and successful advertising person with an opinion that is different from mine. Good for him. But good for me too. Because y’all, I know I have a lot more to learn. Years of colossal failures and small triumphs more to learn. But I’ll be damned if I let myself believe I don’t know a bit about what I’m doing right now.

Significant Intern Moment #5+

2010-07-10T20:03:00.000-05:00

Truthfully, most of my significant intern moments were boringly sappy. And while it's SO much more fun to self-deprecate, I suppose I should write a bit about the boring sappy too. One reason being that apparently, when a blonde, girl-pop-lovin’ eternal optimist gets too carried away with her dark black self-deprecating humor, people start to worry. Too much cognitive dissonance (yeah, that’s right - I went to GRAD SCHOOL. If I don’t get to spout off an impressive academic term here and there, what’s in it for me?). So sit back and enjoy a little sweet:

ZSA ZSA ZSU
Sometime during that first week of my internship, I sat at my little intern desk juggling a handful of impossible deadlines and cranking out all the crap headlines that pop into my brain before the acceptable ones start taking shape, when I had a thought that I have never ever had, not even once, in all of my 34 years of living: I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do this. And I stopped cold to make sure I’d heard my head right. I’d heard people say this before, but I kind of thought it was a myth. Something people said just because it was a thing to say. Much like I thought being in love was a myth before I actually fell in love for the first time. But, you know what? It’s not a myth. You really can enjoy a job that much. I felt it from head to toe. And it was about time.

WORKING IN THE TRENCHES
A creative intern at this particular agency is not a coffee-making grunt doing stupid jobs. From day one, people treated me like a real person. Like a regular, full-time (albeit junior) writer - same assignments, same expectations, same level of trust and respect. Seven different creative teams genuinely trusted Stupid New Girl to work everything from print to broadcast to online for eight different clients. Including the direct mail campaign where I got to work with a full-time art director on everything from conceptualizing to presenting to the client to getting several pieces produced. And the new web page launch where I was the only writer and only creative and got to present to the client all on my own. It was nice to get things purchased and produced, but even better to learn how and when to stick up for my ideas and push back to the client.

BLOODY HELL, PEOPLE RESPECT ME!
There was the art director from that direct mail campaign who had to put up with every layer of my personality - the new girl freak outs, the early-morning cheerleaderese, the ditziness. I knew we’d gelled as soon as she felt comfortable enough to tell me to “shut up and work please” and to ask me if I could POSSIBLY wear anymore rhinestones. But she also told me that I knew what I was doing, that I was a great writer and that she depended on me. Me!

There was my boss who continually praised me for my writing progress and more importantly, my good work ethic and positive attitude. The last two being even more important to me than being good at writing copy. I'm scandalously dull that way. And when I told him that I found the 45-minute, early morning creative status meeting “fascinating,” I think he fell out of his chair. On his way down, he added, “God bless your bright-eyed eagerness. Don’t ever lose that.”

And there were all the other wonderful creative directors, writers, art directors, account planners and managers that believed in me and encouraged me until the very end. They will never know the significance of that to me. Any copy I might have written for them could never be an equal payback. I can only hope that someday, I will pay it forward to some other clueless intern. Preferably one who wears a lot of rhinestones, takes the stairs to the wrong floor and then wonders why she can’t find the conference room that was there just the other day.

P.S. And just when you thought I couldn’t spin any more sugar, I have one more sappy moment to post. Watch this space.

Significant Intern Moment #4: Some like it corny

2010-06-21T21:31:00.000-05:00

You may or may not be wondering what exactly happened next in the Scriptwriting Sink or Swim. I’ll tell you anyway. I swam. And I paddled and floated right into the next Significant Moment.

You see, what happens after you read your scripts aloud to the room is that every person at the table takes a turn to critique each script. And this is when the opening line of one of my scripts was raved over by half the room (“Perfect opening line!” “Makes me hungry!” “Takes me right there!”) and hated and spat upon by the other half. One of those being the copywriting creative director who has a reputation of telling it like it is and who I’m pretty sure, wanted to throw up right there in the room. Something about the corniest, cheesiest line ever – one that reeked of advertisingese.

And while he was losing his breakfast in the corner, I was glowing. I’d polarized the room! Hell yeah.

Significant Intern Moment #3: Scriptwriting Sink or Swim

2010-06-21T21:05:00.000-05:00

In all the time I was in school, learning how to create ads, I wrote one TV spot. More print ads than I can count, a whole lot of non-traditional placements, some online pieces, a few radio spots and one TV spot. And I believe my teacher’s comment was something like, “How is this interesting?”

So when I got my first TV assignment about a month into my internship and found out that the first creative internal would be in two days, I felt a tiny bit out of my element.

And when the team called me two hours before the internal was scheduled to start and told me that they were just going to go ahead and start NOW instead, I felt a whole lot out of my element. So without any time to ask anybody how one was supposed to present a TV script in a professional agency, I walked into the room. And with this being one of the agency’s biggest clients, that room was pretty bloody full. A few planners, a few managers, the principal on the account and the two creative directors on the account. And me, the clueless intern clutching three raw TV scripts in hand, waiting for my cue to present, and acting as if my brain wasn’t screaming: OMG, I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING. HOLY CRAP, HOLY CRAP, HOLY CRAP!

And that, y’all, was how my 2nd, 3rd and 4th TV scripts met the world.

Also, I’m not going to lie. I LOVED it. This kind of delicious adrenaline being a performance major’s crack and all (not the right reason to choose a degree in music, by the way.)

Significant Intern Moment #2: Crickets and Tumbleweeds

2010-06-21T17:53:00.000-05:00

On the very same day that those first headlines were slaughtered , I was at the internal creative review for that same client – an internal creative review being the equivalent of portfolio class at school except that my words and ideas were up to be crucified by real-life creative directors plus account managers and planners.

So there I sat as the principal account manager peered at one of my headlines and said, “I love the thought, but the line… it just doesn’t have enough… something.” Not to be daunted, I said, “I have more.”

And the wonderful, wonderful copywriting creative director that was working with me on this project said, “Yes, yes. She has more. Let’s let her read them.”

At which time the entire team turns, looks and listens expectantly. The newest little copywriting intern at the center of attention and the wonderful, wonderful copywriting CD nodding encouragingly.

So I read one.

Silence.

I read another.

Silence.

I read two or three more in a row without pause. Crickets. Tumbleweeds. And more crickets.

And that afternoon, my skin proudly grew one more layer.

Off the bench

2010-05-19T23:07:00.001-05:00

A week and a half into my internship, it happened. What every little copywriter who has ever thought she might work in advertising daydreams about – the day when you offer the work that you wrote with such care and affection up to the client and watch as they shoot a bullet in its heart.

Every single one of your headlines murdered, swift and brutal.

It was a moment that was simultaneously totally sucky and completely euphoric. Yes, I said euphoric. Because that, my friends, is the moment you know you’re in the game.

More significant moments in The Internship to come.

And I still don't got milk

2010-04-25T12:50:00.000-05:00

Milk tastes like nothing.

That’s what I told my mom at the age of three when she asked me why I gagged every time I tried to drink some.

I was the kid who was drinking pickle juice, sucking on lemon slices, craving black licorice, guzzling root beer, devouring ginger, licking the flavor off salt ‘n vinegar chips (only available in Canada at the time), and of course sinking my teeth into bitter chocolate. I wanted sour. I wanted bitter. I wanted spicy, extra salty, and super sweet. And all the combinations of the above.

I am now the adult who is drinking pickle juice, craving black licorice, downing root beer, you get the picture. I don’t suck on lemon slices anymore, but I do prefer an Amstel Light with four or five green olives stuffed down into the bottle.

I’ve gotten used to the looks of horror and disgust. It embarrassed me a bit when I was little, but then I started feeling proud. I’m not afraid of taste, I cry. I like my food the way I like my life. With some kick, some edge, and some ferocity along with the super sweet. I am a real woman.

That is until I had a conversation with a couple of coworkers recently and learned about supertasters - the superheroes of taste. Born with more taste buds than the rest of us and the special power to experience flavors more intensely. They’re out there tasting flavors in broccoli that my simple tongue can’t even begin to comprehend. It turns out that I'm not so fierce after all. It’s just that I was born with maybe ½ of a taste bud. I am not brave, I am not super. And, I am a second-rate taster.

Off to drown my sorrows in dark chocolate covered black licorice, salt ‘n vinegar greek olives and a cocktail of pickle juice, root beer and ginger ale.

To all the art directors I’ve ever exasperated

2010-04-25T12:38:00.000-05:00

I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But I’ve repented and I’ve changed my ways. Do you see it now? One space after a period at the end of a sentence. ONE. You may thank the proofreaders at my internship who catch every single one of my evil sins and then tell my art director who was the first one to finally grab me by the arms and say, “EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU DO THIS? I HAVE TO CHANGE IT.” God bless her.

So please forgive me. And maybe give me a break? I learned to type on a typewriter for Pete’s sake. I used to get a pat on the back and a cookie for remembering two spaces.

My eyes only, never my heart. So there, God & ESPN.

2010-03-28T19:02:00.001-05:00

With genuine respect for all the men (real and fantastical) in my life, I’d like to share a story called, Why Professional Athletes Start Thinking They are God & ESPN’s Gift to Women.

I would first like to say that I am not a girl who scopes out men at all times. Not when I’m by myself, not when I’m with Significant Man, not when I’m with my girlfriends, not when I’m with the gay men. Never. I know it makes me somewhat boring, but I’m just not that girl. I’ll admit that I have a bit of a weakness for athletes when they’re out on the court/field/ice. But still, if I’m at a game, I’m not there to look at men. I’m there to scream, cheer and watch a game. Also, I happen to take some pride in not being one of those girls who contributes to the tragically inflated egos that result from Why Professional Athletes Start Thinking They are God & ESPN’s Gift to Women. And no, the Dirk thing doesn’t count. His ego is just fine and if you try to argue with me, well then you will lose.

So a couple of weekends ago, I went to a Stars game. Sure, they were probably going to get their asses kicked by the Colorado Avalanche, but a simple fan like me is just happy to be at a game. Especially when I’m sitting third row from the glass and 10 ft. from the penalty box. Eye contact range.

So there I am, sitting next to the Boutique VIP who so generously shared those great seats, yelling for the Stars, making some noise, wearing green. But I’ll be damned if within the first ten minutes of that game, someone wasn’t sent to the penalty box for fighting – a certain #15 of the Colorado Avalanche. And y’all. As soon as he took off his helmet, revealed his sweaty blond hair and skated into that penalty box a mere ten feet away, I took one look at the blue-eyed, 6-ft warrior on ice (oh yes I did write that) and my eyes popped out of my head. Popped. Out. Of my head. I nearly bruised Boutique VIP’s arm and knocked her out of her seat, screaming, “LOOK AT THE HOT GUY IN THE PENALTY BOX! LOOK! LOOK! LOOOOOOOOK! HE IS HOT. HOLY, BLOODY HELL, HE IS HOT!” God bless the people sitting around me for not throwing me out on the ice. Especially since he was sent to the box a couple more times (#15 is a hell raiser) and they then had to hear me yell, “MATT HENDRICKS. HIS NAME IS MATT HENDRICKS! #15!” and “HIS EYEBROW IS BLEEDING. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING SO DAMN HOT?”

In one afternoon, the girl who never scopes out men reverted back to a boy-crazy teenager. And another pro athlete was wrapped up in a bow and dropped in the lap of my eyes. The tag attached said, “Dirk, Matt. Stop lying to yourself. YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE GIRLS. Love, God & ESPN.”

A brand I can trip over

2010-03-28T17:54:00.000-05:00

As part of our creative internship, we make what we call a self-promotion piece. It’s a way to think about how we brand ourselves and how to represent that brand in a small tangible piece that we can use to get our names and faces in front of creative directors. As usual, I went through a few hundred ideas before settling on this:

HAIKU OF A VIOLINIST TURNED WRITER

That damn violin
it’s strings just give me blisters.
Words don’t butcher skin

-bebe Me
recovering violinist, diehard Longhorn and the newest little copywriting intern

If you need some help, please give me a call. I work hard, I care very much about doing my best and I like to think and write. Also, I’m remarkably good at tripping over invisible dogs.

I laid it out, printed it on glossy cardstock, and then handed one to each of the agency's 30 or so creative directors. I met most of them within a span of two days. That’s a lot of faces to remember in two days. You can see why I'm terrified that I’ll run into one of them and blurt out, “You’re the one with the crazy black glasses!” And then, I will trip and sprain my ankle.

A good place

2010-03-28T17:19:00.000-05:00

It’s been too many weeks and not enough posts about my internship. But I have a completely unoriginal excuse that you may or may not accept: I’ve been thrilled, exhausted, in love and wanting nothing more than to spend any free time I have in a selfish state of brainless indulgence. Which does not necessarily include writing for the blog because as hard as it is to believe, I really do use a brain cell or two when I write the cotton candy for the brain.

I have lots of stories to post about the internship, but until I can sit down and craft them in a way that won’t make you nod off mid-post, I’ll start out by sharing a few things overheard that remind me that I’m indeed at an ad agency:

We have similar panties, but our bra is more sheer.

-said in all seriousness by another writer

I made the mistake of going to lunch today.

-said in all seriousness by a brand manager

Now if we can just get the cows to quote scripture.

-could have been serious, could have been joking. I’m still not sure. And said by my brilliant writer boss

Back to bebe

2010-03-28T16:50:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I got a text message:

Your bebe vacation is over.

I knew what that meant - word had spread among bebe store managers that I’m out of school, back in town and bringing in a bit of money. And this was their way of welcoming me back. Me and my credit card.

You may remember that before I went back to school, I modeled at local bebe stores for the spring and fall premier collection events. It’s a brilliant promotional tactic: bebe gets real live bodies to model the clothing during the event and models get a nice discount on anything in the store that day. And because the models are carefully-selected, top-spending clients, store managers get to hear a sound that's sweeter than the fluttered sleeves of this knit top that evening: screams of delight from the models in the fitting rooms, credit cards being whipped out at the register and multiple tags being scanned. Sales for them, style for us. Everybody wins.

Of course, the rule is that if in the middle of modeling, you tell the store manager that oh, you think you’ll only buy 1 or 2 items, then even faster than you can say “just kid-” she will strip you down and throw you out of the store in your underwear. Don’t even joke around about it.

You can bet that I never joked about it. In fact, I’d been modeling and rightly spending for so long that when I moved to Austin three years ago, the Boutique VIP asked me if I’d want to model in one of the Austin stores while I was there. My reply was, “Um, school remember? I have no mon-“ At which point, she hung up the phone.

But this spring, I was back on the floor in 4-inch heels, showing clients where to find the various pieces I wore throughout the night. My favorite: this smokey rose pleat folded corset. And God bless the store manager for not throwing me out when I asked her which store was carrying bebe Sport these days (the line was discontinued a couple years or so ago) and when I took a whole 60 seconds to unearth my club bebe card from the depths of my wallet. God also bless her and bless the Boutique VIP for letting me on the floor in the first place. Sure I’m bringing in a bit of income - enough to buy more than two items, but certainly not enough to buy the bagsful and hangersful that I once did. Ether they really do like me or they’re counting on a future of even more very full bags and hangers.

In return for their generosity (and also just because I love the merchandise), I will now properly gush about a few of the looks in bebe stores right now. Just like old times.

My favorites: Bold tops and dresses with asymmetric lines and cuts in vibrant colors, including hot pink, yellow, and coral. Stretchy, snug skinny jeans with rockstar embellishments - I picked up a silver-studded pair. Cropped denim jacket (went for it) and leatherette denim jacket with a wicked cool asymmetrical zipper (lusted after, but didn’t get it this time). Clean pencil skirts and short shorts. Unapologetically high heels and wedges with funky straps and crazy studs/bling. Fun metallic or otherwise shiny hairbands.

More looks: Modern ruffled tops. Fitted blazers and military blazers. Skinny jeans, some distressed, some solid, some with a sheen. Long mermaid dresses. Fedoras with bands.

Now if it would just stop snowing out of the blue around here, we could put our sweaters away and start wearing spring. There's nothing like a few new looks to motivate a girl to look forward to another season of Texas heat. Bring it on.

Stupid New Girl in Adland

2010-02-15T16:23:00.000-06:00

Yes, I really did. I survived the first week of my writing internship at The Ad Agency. And the only thing I broke was a cowboy boot.

My brain, of course, is crispy-fried and bulging at the seams. And I still carry a 7 -paged map of the office every time I leave my desk. I’ve walked back to the wrong desk (five times and counting) and noticed only when I couldn’t find my handbag in somebody else’s drawer. I’ve shown up to meetings, certain that I was being hazed (and probably recorded by a secret camera) because no one else was there yet. Let’s see how long the intern will sit in a conference room all by herself. And if we’re really lucky, she’ll face the camera and PICK HER NOSE.

But y’all, it’s been fantastic. Because, well, there’s the most obvious reason - I get to go to work and think of ideas, find stories, craft voices and write. But also, the culture at this agency is pretty damn great. The people take one look at me, my maps and my perpetually startled expression and ask how they can help. When my above-mentioned $30 fake-leather boot came apart at the sole, the girls in the cubicles next to me whipped out the packing tape and helped me tape it back together. And the founder and principal of this very established agency also sits in a cubicle (albeit a very spacious and cool-shaped one) and he didn’t blink an eye - even seemed thrilled - when I spontaneously walked into his office on my first afternoon and introduced myself as the newest little intern.

And then there was the first warm and fuzzy moment: I told someone that, you know, he could just call me Stupid New Girl. And I did NOT get a look of silent horror. Or awkward sympathy. Instead, just like that, I got a brand-new nickname: StoopidLee.

To She of the Cool Hats (the creator behind the original best nickname ever) and everyone else there from Event Management Company X: it’s our people! Hallelujah, it’s OUR PEOPLE.

Shout out to The Other SNG

2010-02-15T16:18:00.001-06:00

To The Girl with the Platinum Locks:

From one Stupid New Girl to another, you rock. I wish I'd have thought of sending YOU a card to the office on your first week of work. But I bet I can SNG you under the table any day. How many times have YOU walked to the wrong desk and started opening drawers that don't belong to you?

All warm and fuzzy

2010-01-26T14:52:00.000-06:00

God & the Universe may have given me a dumb blonde karma, but at least they’ve blessed me with a mother who truly hears me when I self-deprecate.

I’d just sent her an email about how an ad agency had expressed some interest in me and told me they’d call me back the next day. And I felt pretty good until I found out that they’d also been asking around about my old art director, hoping that we could work together as a team. So when this agency found out that she is already art directing somewhere else and I didn’t hear back from them the next day, I told my mom that they must’ve wanted her – and I was just included. Like the plastic fork that comes with the salad. The sticker on the banana. The ketchup packet that comes with the burger.

Almost immediately, I got an email back from my mom. It started with, “Dear Ketchup,”

And that y'all, is the kind of thing is that confirms that this woman is my own flesh and blood.

P.S. It turns out that I am not a plastic fork after all. And the good news for y'all is that I will soon be Stupid New Girl somewhere else. Get ready.

Once a salesperson, always a manipulative little bitch

2010-01-18T16:36:00.000-06:00

Conversation this morning with the sales guy in the next cubicle:

ME: Hey, how are you? How was your weekend?

congenial chitchat and exchanging of weekend stories

ME: That's great, sounds like a good weekend. Oh and hey by the way, can you send me the updates for the Top 20 list?

HIM: Wait a minute. Is that why you came over here to ask me about my weekend?

I guess it takes one to know one and all that.

Just ask Earl Hickey

2010-01-14T20:40:00.000-06:00

Dear Person who stole my Beautiful iPod Nano,

I have just this to say: My karma may be a dumb blonde, but she is real and so is yours.

Love,

bebe Me

P.S. And even if I do end up finding the shiny pink light of my life under the seat in my car, well then I'm still not going to apologize for writing this note. Mostly because you don't exist.

Why I don't remember the taste of chicken

2009-12-27T19:16:00.000-06:00

All true champions know that unless it is occasionally peppered with the bitter bite of defeat, the sweetness of life just tastes like chicken.

-Alton Brown on The Iron Chef

We blondes eventually get it. It just takes a few seconds. Or years.

2009-12-23T10:16:00.000-06:00

This morning, I woke up to the life of my dreams. My dreams from the year 2006.

You see, about three years ago, I was trying to find my brain. It had gotten lost somewhere in the rubble of professional tedium and discontent that I'd let accumulate for too many years. I was ready to make a dramatic change, and yet I had no idea of what I wanted to do. What I did know was that I was going to have to start right back down at the gritty bottom. So after a few months of asking people if they thought I'd be able to become a hip-hop violinist without having to actually play the violin or a professional personal shopper without having to shop for someone else, I finally buckled down to figure out some real, entry-level options.

And three years later, I'm knee-deep in one of those entry-level options and the opportunities to wade right into the next level are unabashedly throwing themselves in front of me. The problem being, of course, that I NO LONGER WANT THEM.

Bloody hell, y'all. I uprooted my entire life, moved to Crunchy City, put my work up to be publicly crucified on a weekly basis and came out with a lovely portfolio that killed a few hundred thousand of my brain cells. All so I could call up a temp agency and live out my dreams that expired right along with the second Bionic Woman.

God bless my karma. I guess she's blonde too.

Snowflakes that fall on my nose and sunglasses

2009-12-13T13:54:00.004-06:00

When I moved to Austin a couple years ago, I swore on my Dirk Nowitzki fathead that I would not change. I would not become a hippie, an emo, a “cool band” elitist or anyone who throws on a pair of Birkenstocks and exposes her dirty, crusty toenails for all the world to see. No, the city that keeps it weird WOULD NOT CHANGE a single fake-blonde hair on my head.

Well y’all, I've changed. No, I haven't cultivated a full head of dreds. Nor have I replaced all of my Britney Spears tunes with Ghostland ones. I have changed in an entirely different way. And I didn’t even know I'd changed until last week, during Dallas’s first “snowfall” of the season. There I was, driving to work through a flurry of snowflakes and I'll be damned if I didn't SMILE. Because of the snow. And then another pig flew past my window.

You see, I am not one of those Texans who is fascinated and delighted with frozen water falling from the sky. After all, I was a kindergartener who trudged through a Denver blizzard and a pesky little sister on a sled, pulled by my reluctant brother through white Calgary winters. So up until I was 18, my attitude toward snow was something like an offhanded “meh.” But then there were the four long years at the music conservatory in one Rochester, NY. And that is when my attitude changed from “meh” to “Are you there God? It’s me, the girl from Texas. JUST KILL ME.” Ok, it may have had something to do with the fact that Rochester’s skies are especially sunless. And snow that accumulates into frozen heaps of greasy, gray slush looks way worse under gloomy skies than under the forgiving light of sunshine. And ok, it probably had a LOT to do with the fact that I started to associate snow with walking through that slush in frumpy down coats and ass-freezing temperatures while my spirit slowly lost all of its breath because I was trying to force it to BE A VIOLINIST AND BE HAPPY ABOUT IT, DAMN IT.

Which is why, for several years, at the very sight of snow, I'd put my hands up in defense and yell, NO I WILL NOT SPEND AN HOUR BY MYSELF IN A TINY PRACTICE ROOM, PERFECTING MY 4-OCTAVE MINOR ARPEGGIOS! And then I'd turn on a sappy love song, curl up with my sunglasses and a pair of strappy sandals and spend the day pining for the sunshine, wondering if I'd feel its heavenly glory ever again.

And how did I get from that to smiles and flying pigs? Austin, Texas. The place where five minutes of walking outside in the summertime left me in an ugly, sticky sweat. The same place where five minutes of walking outside in the dead of winter left me in an ugly, sticky sweat - in the dead of winter, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt no less. The place that is regularly about 10 degrees hotter and 500% more humid than Dallas. Now I know that 10 degrees sounds like nothing to people who don't live in Texas, Florida, the deep south or any other place that closes down at the drop of a snowflake, but thinks nothing of spending every waking triple-degree summer day frying in the heat. But, trust me, it is different. So different that even a warm-weather lover like me can start craving cold. I missed the two times a year I get to drive on ice. I missed getting to wear my winter sweaters for more than one morning every six weeks. And I wanted to be able to walk outside in December without wondering if people were staring at the sweaty ring around my neckline or if they were just very fascinated with my remarkably flat chest.

So of course I was happy to see the snow last week. Because snow, it seems, no longer means the sun has abandoned me forever, leaving me with only a violin and my Galamian technique book. No, y'all - it means that I just might get to wear a sweater AND a coat for several days in a row and leave the ugly sweat at the gym where it belongs.

It also means that as I drove through the snow that day, I took a moment to reach out: "Are you there God? It's me, the girl who kinda likes snow now. So... can we possibly do something about the flat chest?"

For behold, I bring you tidings of great teen fiction

2009-12-08T17:21:00.000-06:00

Just in time for the holidays, I'd like to share the link to this little site I've seen:

Grown-up thoughts on teen fiction

Master of what?

2009-12-01T22:27:00.000-06:00

Many of you have heard the first part of this already since it was just too good of a story to keep to myself as soon as it happened. But for anyone reading this who has not heard this story, brace yourself. Because you’ve never heard such ditziness in your life.

So I’d been at work for about an hour and a half or so when I got up to go to the bathroom. While I was standing at the sink washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and noticed that I didn’t have an earring in my right ear. And just as I was wondering how the hell I’d already lost an earring by 10:30 a.m., I looked a little closer. And holy crap, y’all. You see these earrings in this photo?

I’d put TWO of them in my left ear. In the ONE hole.

But you don’t actually think this is the first time something like this has happened to me, do you? There was the time I discovered that I was wearing my V-string sideways. Yes, sideways. Or the time I almost left the house with two contact lenses in the same eye. And all of us flat-chested women have left the house without a bra at least once or twice, but have you ever known anyone to leave the house with two bras on at the same time? Well, YOU DO NOW.

And The University of Texas let her out with a diploma. And a MASTER'S DEGREE.

So THIS is how they felt when they first saw sliced bread

2009-10-20T12:00:00.000-05:00

The Onion makes greeting cards now.

And? You can buy them at Target.

My life is now complete.

But at least they'll say "please"

2009-10-20T11:21:00.000-05:00

Mom: We’re going to California next month - I have to spend as much time with the grandkids as possible right now while they’ll still talk to me.

Me: You mean until they find out that after midnight, you turn into a hairy, purple, 7-headed toy-eating machine?

Mom: No, I mean pretty soon, they’ll just text. My own grandson will TEXT his brother to pass the corn, please. And then his sister will text a, May I please be excused?, to her mother

Me: Well, I don’t think-

Mom: HAVE YOU WATCHED THE NEWS RECENTLY? KIDS – THEY TEXT INSTEAD OF TALK.

Me: Yeah, but –

Mom (sadly): Oh it’s ok. I’m used to competing with electronics. I mean remember how YOU learned how to bake a crack-free cheesecake?

Me: I googled it?

Mom: Yes, the internet - your surrogate e-mama.

And yes, that is a direct quote. She actually said “surrogate e-mama.”

The only one missing here is Oprah

2009-10-15T15:29:00.000-05:00

Well y’all, God and the Universe have spoken. And they have said:

Buy ye an iPod Nano.

At first, I resisted. Oh how I resisted. Because I had an 80 GB CLASSIC video iPod – a gift of thanks from the granite employers in return for my seven years of servitude as a client/showroom-girl babysitter. And by golly, an 80 GB classic video iPod was good enough for me. But God and the Universe (G&U) are very, very sneaky. Especially when they speak through other people. And other things:

G&U speak through my temp job (end of July)

My resistance: Even if I wanted a Nano, how would my unemployed self afford such a thing? And anyway, I already have my classic video iPod.

Their answer: My classic video iPod stopped working on the first day of my temp job, a.k.a source of income.

Through the lips of an Apple Store Genius Bar Genius

My resistance: I can get my classic iPod fixed. I mean, hello, geniuses.

Their answer: Apple Genius sticks my classic up to his ear, shakes his head slowly and says, “A new hard drive is going to cost you at least $300. You know what you should do? You should trade this in for a discount and get an iPod Nano.” He might as well have taken the stiletto heel off my foot and pierced it through my heart. I did NOT spend seven years calling emergency meetings to resolve cat fights over where to set the showroom thermostat for anything less than a device that costs at LEAST $400.

Through Google (yes, I know – isn’t Google God & the Universe?)

My resistance: I know how to Google. Genius, Shmenius, I’ll fix my classic iPod by myself.

Their answer: You know how they say you can water and love a plant so much that it dies? Same goes for 80 GB classic video iPods .

Through the color pink

My resistance. It’s all good. I still have my pink Sansa Clip that I use for my workouts. Sure its screen sucks, but it plays my tunes and my podcasts. And did I mention? It’s pink.

Their answer: THE IPOD NANO COMES IN PINK.

Through a new friend (beginning of September)

My resistance: How do I know the Nano’s going to be any better than the Sansa Clip? The Sansa is so tiny and light!.

Their answer: I met a new friend who'd just moved to Dallas and guess what he had hooked up in his car? Oh yes, that. He tossed it to me and told me to pick out a song. How could I ignore how small, light, and SLEEK it was. And oh, the iPod screen. How I’d missed the iPod screen.

Through the death of my lovely white earbuds, which came with my classic iPod (mid-September)

My resistance: I can’t give up on my classic iPod yet. I still have his earbuds. Part of him is still alive! Just REPLACE him with a Nano? So cavalier.

Their answer: Killed the earbuds.

Through Steve Jobs - see parentheses after Google. (end of September)

My resistance: Yes but the Sansa Clip? I can listen to the radio on it! And I’ve always hated that my iPod could never play the radio.

Their answer: An email announcing what else but the unveiling of the 5G iPod Nano. The one with the video camera, the pedometer, the genius mixing and iTunes tagging. Wait a minute, iTunes tagging? Doesn’t that mean it has a-??? HOLY CRAP, G&U TOLD STEVE JOBS TO INCLUDE AN FM TUNER JUST SO THAT I WOULD BUY THE DAMN IPOD NANO. (And yes, it has occurred to me that sometimes I’m somewhat narcissistic.)

Through one. last. death (very end of September)

My resistance: You can’t tell me what to do! I will use this Sansa Clip until the day it DIES.

Their answer: Can’t you guess?

Which is when I threw myself on the ground, thrust my hands up toward heaven and all that and said, “FINE. I WILL BUY A 5G iPOD NANO. IN PINK.”

So I did. And y’all, I’m not going to lie. I’m a little bit in love with it.

I mean, after all, it was God, the Universe, Google AND Steve Jobs. It’s a miracle that I just have a new iPod and that I’m not out proselytizing some sort of cosmologic religion in which you pray to your Apple computer’s Google search bar.

In search of a little self-respect

2009-10-15T13:40:00.000-05:00

I’ve mentioned several times on this site that I am a teen fiction enthusiast. A bona fide fanatic, zealot, and devotee. Would it be going too far to call myself a groupie? And yet, I so rarely write about the books that I inhale. I mean, what sort of self-respecting book groupie doesn’t write about the books at which she throws herself in irrepressible lust?

The truth is that while I do, in some fashion, love and enjoy nearly every teen fiction book that I read, there are some that reach me in a way that makes me want to go door-to-door, sharing the good book with those who are lost and in need of something that will make their lives complete. In the last month or so, I’ve read three such books and since I’d rather leave the door-to-door proselytizing to those guys on bikes, I’m going to start sharing these books right here on this space. And if you are open to a life filled with meaning, then you can read these posts. And if you’re just too damn good for teenage angst, then you can slam your browser window shut and I’ll never even know.

P.S. Thank you, Chuck, for planting the seed of this idea. Like two years ago.

Teen Fiction: Tale of Two Summers

2009-10-15T13:39:00.000-05:00

Click here if you are confused by this post.

BOOK: Tale of Two Summers
AUTHOR: Brian Sloan

SUMMED UP:
Two best friends spend the summer apart, but stay in touch through an online blog. One is gay (Hal), one is straight (Chuck).

MY 1.5 CENTS:
Love it. Crafted, authentic voices and a story that unfolds organically through the written ramblings between two friends. Not unlike the way catwoman and I share our lives in different cities through our emails.

COOL EXCERPTS:
The opening paragraph that instantly lured me in (Hal's voice):

So right off the bat, I have to say that this whole blog thing you've set up is totally gay. Now, I know that being gay and all I really shouldn't use "gay" in such a derogatory way, but what can I say? Writing blogs is so damn GAY I can't even discuss it. But this was your idea and you're supposedly straight, which makes the whole thing somewhat disturbing, actually: that straight-old-you could come up with such a gay-old-idea for keeping in touch over the course of the summer. But I guess there's no accounting for sexuality or something.

Another gem from Hal in the thick of one of their epistolary fights:

By all rights, I should go off on you. I should really start letting you have it via an endlessly agitated and somewhat enraged stream of electronic invective. But I'm not going to do that. I'm a changed person since you left. I've realized the value of being pithy - which is to say ... F.U., BRO!

And some of Chuck's voice:

One thing that might complicate our storyline is Ryan, our annoying director. He still hasn't told us his mysterious concept for the show, which Ghaliyah thinks means he's a friggin' genius. I think it means the dude has his head up his ass. Seriously. He acts like he knows everything, and he's barely out of school.

Teen Fiction: Born Confused

2009-10-15T13:37:00.000-05:00

Click here if you are confused by this post.

BOOK: Born Confused
AUTHOR: Tanuja Desai Hidier

SUMMED UP:
Spot-on experiences that ring true for any second-generation teenager in America through the eyes and camera lens of Dimple, an ABCD ("American Born Confused Desi") with a blonde best friend and parents who provide her with love, samosas, love, a "suitable boy" and love.

MY 1.5 CENTS
At times, it felt a little long (413 pages) to me, but it is totally worth it. Lots of light shed on the Indian culture too.

COOL EXCERPTS:

So not quite Indian, and not quite American. Usually I felt more along the lines of Alien (however legal, as my Jersey birth certificate attests to). The only times I retreated to one or the other description were when my peers didn't understand me (then I figured it was because I was too Indian) or when my family didn't get it (clearly because I was too American). And in India. Sometimes I was too Indian in America, yes, but in India, I was definitely not Indian enough.

I LOVE the way Hidier sums up this film student's entire character in the following short dialogue:

-So, uh, how's film school?
-You couldn't imagine. To be immersed in your metier 24/7, to be liaisoning with people of nearly equal artistic aptitude - it takes rad to a whole new level.

He pronounced metier and liaisoning and, oddly, aptitude, as if he were speaking French. I didn't think he was French though, not even French-Canadian. What the frock was I saying? He was from Jersey.

I laughed a lot while reading this book, but when Dimple goes home after smoking a joint and first sees her parents? THIS had me rolling on the floor:

-High! my parents yelped in unison.

I was stoned. Frock.

Teen Fiction: The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks

2009-10-14T13:38:00.000-05:00

Click here if you are confused by this post.

BOOK: The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
AUTHOR: E. Lockhart

SUMMED UP:
Smart, pretty girl (Frankie) rocks the boat at a private boarding school that is dominated by an exclusive, generations-old boys’ club.

MY 1.5 CENTS:
The cool part? Frankie doesn’t outsmart the good old boys in a deliberate fit of sassy girl power (although I do still love deliberate fits of sassy girl power) – she just does what feels right to her and she’s just that smart.

COOL EXCERPTS:

Frankie did not accept life as it was presently occurring. It was a fundamental element of her character. Life as it was presently occurring was not acceptable to her. Were she to mellow out - would she not become obedient? Would she not stay on the path that stretched ahead of her, nicely bricked ?

She did not get much out of therapy.

Frankie Landau-Banks is an off-roader.

The book ends perfectly with:

It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can't see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.

She will not be simple and sweet. She will not be what people tell her she should be. That Bunny Rabbit is dead.

She watches the boys as they peel off in different directions and disappear around corners and into the buildings of Alabaster.

She doesn't feel like crying anymore.

Reply to All: But you may call me Stupid New Girl, thank you.

2009-10-06T12:48:00.004-05:00

One of the best parts of a new job is getting the new nickname. Stupid New Girl is by far my favorite, but I think I’ve found a second. It was christened upon me yesterday by a client at my new temp job. And how did he do it? In an email to his sales executive, which eventually ended up in my inbox. Isn’t that special? Yes, in the middle of the email and in a line all by itself, he writes:

bebe me = No Bueno

Now, who knew that a client who doesn’t know how to scroll down to the bottom of an email chain to understand the entire situation before jumping in to things and who also doesn’t seem to understand simple sentences had such a knack for damn good ironic humor? Kudos to the imbecile! It sure as hell made me laugh. It's a bloody shame that he was being serious.

I think we're in a rut

2009-09-29T11:37:00.004-05:00

Phone conversation with my gay boyfriend last night:

Him: Hey, what are you doing?

Me: Watching football. What are you doing?

Him: Watching Dancing with the Stars.

When did we become SUCH a cliché?

A little Monday morning levity

2009-09-14T11:47:00.001-05:00

And how do you not giggle just a LITTLE bit when you’re at work and have to leave a voice mail for someone named Mr. Doobie?

To Live By

2009-09-01T09:14:00.005-05:00

From my lululemon bag:

DANCE, SING, FLOSS AND TRAVEL.

That place with the maple leaf on its flag

2009-08-26T12:23:00.000-05:00

Visiting the Okanagan Valley is way better when you're old enough to swim in the lakes without bursting into tears. It's also way better when you can hike, swim and enjoy the view with six feet worth of sexy, smokin'- hot blond man.

Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:

Scroll down or click here to see more

More of That Place

2009-08-26T12:22:00.000-05:00

Ok, fine. I guess Texas isn't the only place with lovely sunsets:

But the lakes there are definitely better. Hands down. Like, you know, you can actually see your feet in the water and you don't feel like taking 700 showers after swimming in it:

Where the roaches ain’t

2009-08-17T15:46:00.004-05:00

Some of y’all may not know this, but I was not born in Glorious Fake Blonde City. Nor was I even born in Texas. Or in any other place where every carbonated drink - brown, clear or otherwise - is “Coke.” I was born in a far-off, exotic land where winters are white and potato chips come in ketchup flavor. No, no, not Hell - Canada, sillies. And by the way, ketchup chips are DELICIOUS. Also, I did not live in an igloo. (But I did get pulled to school by a team of Siberian sled dogs.)

I spent my first five years plus my childhood summer vacations in this place called Canada, eating chocolate Smarties, buying clothes from Marks & Spencer and watching Casey and Finnegan on Mr. Dressup. I learned the alphabet’s ending as x,y,”zed” and I won't look at you funny if you talk about parkades or tukes. If someone were to say to me that they were “on holiday with a bunch of Canucks,” I wouldn't for a second think that it involved Christmas trees and/or hockey players. In my mind, this makes me a proud Canadian-born Texan. But in my Canadian-raised mother’s eyes, I am nothing more than an American who knows that she was born some place vaguely north. So ok, maybe I went through a period of time during which I tried to forget everything from my Canadian roots. But that’s only because it’s hard to be taken seriously in a 2nd grade classroom when you ask to go to the “washroom” or you tell everyone that your brother is just around the corner in “grade 5.” Which is why, by the time I was 13 and had just spent my first summer away from home in Vermont, I had this conversation with my mother:

Me: OMG, mom. I can NOT eat this Aunt Jemimah syrup. I’ve had FRESH, PURE MAPLE SYRUP now. PURE MAPLE SYRUP. You know, from maple trees? They have maple trees in Vermont. Have you EVER had fresh, pure maple syrup from a maple tree?

She stares at me with incredulity – a stare that I fail to notice as I am too busy shaking my head and sighing with pity for the woman who thinks maple syrup comes from a plastic bottle.

Her: I. am. FROM CANADA.

I look up blankly.

Me: So you tried some Vermont syrup in Canada?

Her: Oh good GRIEF. Canada has its own maple trees.

Me: Ok, but do they have as many maple trees as Vermont?

Her: THE FLAG, bebe Me. HAVE YOU SEEN THE CANADIAN FLAG?

And that, y'all, was the day my mother knew for sure that the hot, summer Texas sun really did fry young and impressionable brains until every non-texan thought and memory had burnt to a crisp and fallen off into chicken-fried oblivion. But she accepted it. And probably didn't think too much about it. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. That's when I told her about my upcoming trip to Vancouver, British Columbia.

Me: Yeah, well I might not spend ALL my time in Vancouver. I kind of want to go see some place I’ve never seen. Like I might go to this place called The Okanagan Valley…

A pause that I could not just hear, but actually feel, even over the phone.

Her:: The Okanagan Valley?

Me: Yeah, so there’s a city called Vern-

Her: VERNON. There’s a city called Vernon in the Okanagan Valley. Which you’ve BEEN TO.

Me: What do you mean I’ve been there? I just learned how to spell "Okanagan" a couple of days ago.

Her: I mean that you’ve BEEN THERE. The cherries? Remember picking cherries? We have photos!

Silence.

Her: And the photos of you when you’re standing in the water, bawling because we left you out there to take a picture of you…

Me: Ooooh. You mean the ones where I’m standing in the ocean**?

Her: The ocean?

Me: Yes, I’m in the oc-

Her: You know what? You just enjoy your very first visit to the Okanagan Valley then.

**In case you’re, you know, TEXAN and are unable to tell from the name, the Okanagan Valley is full of lovely lakes, but nowhere near the ocean

I drew a pretty sweet Pegasus too

2009-07-29T22:42:00.004-05:00

Over the past few months, I’ve shown my portfolio to at least 30 advertising creatives from more than15 agencies across 3 different cities. So you’d think that by now, I’d feel a little more comfortable carrying around my black leather portfolio case. That it might even feel as natural as carrying around my violin case still feels. Even though I haven’t actually, you know, OPENED my violin case in about six (nine? twelve? twenty?) months, I can still strap it around my shoulder and wear it as confidently as a push-up bra. I feel justified in holding a 7-pound, 31-inch, extremely conspicuous oblong case around my shoulder. Because hell yeah, I can play a four-octave arpeggio in any key you want and I know exactly where to put my bow on the string for a perfect up-bow staccato.

Yet, when I’m carrying a 3-pound, 10” x 13” portfolio case that I can discreetly hold under my arm, I feel totally self-conscious. Even though, if held the right way, it could absolutely pass for just a slightly large day planner. No one in a cramped elevator would even notice the thing if I’d just stand calmly and silently stare ahead. And that’s what I try to do. So that no one can see that my heart is pounding, my cheeks are flushing and my brain is screaming, Can they tell? Do they KNOW that the extent of my Creative Suite knowledge goes just slightly further than knowing where the selection tool is?

Sure, the work in the portfolio case is mine, but I wrote the words. In WORD DOCUMENTS and messy pencil scribbles in a $3 notebook. I feel like a big ol’ Word Doc -usin’ POSER. And one day, I just know that one of those people in the elevator is going to look at me, smile and say, "Hi." And in response, I will of course blurt out, I KNOW HOW TO USE THE CLONE TOOL IN PHOTOSHOP. AND I USED TO DRAW UNICORNS FOR MY FRIENDS AT SCHOOL!

And then I will look around and hope to God that I’m standing naked in front of my entire junior high school. *

*Actually, I never did have this recurring nightmare. But it would’ve been just plain confusing to write “running away from a badminton shuttlecock that had come alive and whose only aspiration was to creep out little future copywriters with its exceeding ugliness.”

You may remember me from such places as Event Management Company X

2009-07-29T22:13:00.004-05:00

Last week was my first week as a part-time, long-term temp. The job has little to do with copywriting, but it’s a pretty sweet temp gig and I think I’ve made a brilliant first impression. Yup, I’m pretty sure that I impressed the hell out of the marketing communications manager on my fourth day when I was trying to save an event schedule I'd just created in Microsoft Office and I leaned over and had the following exchange with her.

Me: “Hey, I was just, um."

My eyes dart around to see if the director of marketing is still sitting at her desk, ten feet away and within earshot. (She is.)

Me: "Just wondering how I can, uh…"

MC manager is looking at me expectantly.

Me: "Well, you know..."

I lower my voice and lean in closer.

MC manager leans across the desk.

Me (whispering): "How do I...”

Her (whispering): "How do you what?"

Me: "'Save As...'?"

This after a week of trying to navigate my way around an exotic, black laptop that didn’t have a picture of an apple anywhere on it. Apparently, I’ve missed an entire generation of Windows since I last used a PC. And what with trying to remember to close documents on the right instead of the left and to use the scroll bar instead of the two-finger touchpad scroll, it’s a miracle that I didn’t ask her what the hell that crazy extra button at the bottom right corner of the touchpad was. Or maybe it’s a miracle that she didn’t ask me if perhaps I’d feel more comfortable carving the document onto a rock.

Ah but yes, how I have missed being Stupid New Girl. (Hello there, She of the Cool Hats!)

And then I saw fireworks

2009-06-12T16:20:00.003-05:00

It’s no secret that when I was living in Austin, I missed Dallas the way I’d miss a vital organ. A vital organ AND a best friend. Some days, just to fill the void in my heart, I’d listen to podcasts from Dallas radio shows that I didn’t even like. And then there were the little things, like changing my car registration to Travis County, that brought a surprising rush of totally embarrassing tears to my eyes.

Which is why I fully expected an embarrassingly emotional day when I moved back here to Glorious Fake Blonde City. I’d pictured it all in slow motion, set to a song like Chris Daughtry’s Home - the long drive back would be filled with tears and maybe a big dramatic moment where I’d forget all about the steering wheel and throw my arms open and put my hands on my heart.

But when that day finally arrived, and I drove those three hours from Austin to Dallas, there was no crying and no clutching of the heart. Because my mind was completely consumed with only three things:

1.If I change lanes now, will there be enough room behind me for the U-haul truck and my parents’ SUV to change too without causing a 9-car pileup?
2.But if I don’t change lanes now, my friends who are helping me unload will leave and I’ll have to spend an hour on the other end of my brother’s murderous looks that clearly say, “I did not get a degree to work as a heavy furniture mover and WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY THINGS?”

and of course:

3.What’s going to be the best way to clean the floors at my new apartment? (well what did you expect a certified germaphobe to think about?)

So then I thought the embarrassing moment would come while I was unpacking. But it turns out that having a crew of loved ones (God bless them) helping me unpack means that I spend all my time saying, “that goes over here,” “don’t put that THERE,” and “you’re using WHAT to clean wha-?? Step away, just let me do that!” Well, then I was SURE that I’d really feel it as soon as everyone left and I was truly alone in my new place. But instead, when I was on the stepladder, filling up my storage closet or on my hands and knees, scrubbing baseboards, I found myself thinking about other things. Like how I’d kind of miss HEB Stores, Amy’s Ice Cream, and busloads of die-hard fans heading to Longhorn football games on hot, fall Saturdays. Even more often, I was thinking – ok, panicking - about how I now had a higher rent but did NOT have, you know, a JOB. And for some reason, that week, my portfolio was getting a lot of positive feedback from agencies in New York. So when one of my art directors, who was hustling in New York that week, texted me to ask me AGAIN why I won’t consider moving to New York, I’ll admit that for a fraction of a second, I thought, yeah, why is that again?

Luckily, the answer came in loud and clear last Saturday night at the Red, White & Blue Festival at the lake - and not just because my hair, which in Austin would have fallen completely flat by then, still held some curl. But also because as I sat, covered in sticky insect repellent from fake blonde head to sparkly flip-flopped foot, watching fireworks on a blanket 10 feet from the lake and surrounded by gay men, I finally felt it. For the first time since I’d been back, my heart said, I’m home. No embarrassing tears, no dramatic gestures. I’m not saying that I will never be at home somewhere else. I know there are other things, other people, even other cities that can change what makes life feel complete. But right now, right at this very moment, I am home.

yes

2009-05-25T10:53:00.003-05:00

It’s been a little while since I’ve been sappy on this site. But this, being the beginning of life as a grad school survivor, seems like a good time to spout a little saccharin.

The last time I visited my parents, I’d just gotten back from a week of hustling my name and my work to a handful of industry professionals. And their responses were enough to get me to look back again at the last two excruciating years - the gut-punching months of creative pain; the near-death moments of business math ; the bleak homework-fraught weekends and all those onsets of soul-encompassing panic.

Last year, at this time, the only redeeming thought I could draw from all of this was: “Sometimes it just sucks. And I still look ugly when I cry.” What I didn’t write on that day was that I’d spent several weeks working on that post because I'd really, really wanted to tell y’all that I’d come away with some small piece of salvation that made all the pain of that semester worth it. But I couldn’t do it. At least not with any shred of authenticity.

Which is why, this year, I let myself feel encouraged when all of those industry professionals, including the one at this agency, told me that they liked my work - that my work is smart, funny and up to par.

Then, one evening during that visit with my parents, my father asked me, “So you’re almost done with school. Are you glad you did it?” And I looked at him - the man whose emotional and financial support never wavered despite the night I called to wish him a happy anniversary only to end up sobbing and gulping that I “h-h-hated” school, despite the fact that I spent an entire summer telling him that degrees were overrated and maybe I just wouldn’t get one after all – and I answered with a genuine “yes.”

And now, six weeks later, I can still say, “Yes.” Not only because of the things that the professionals said. Not only because of what my teachers (even this teacher) said. Not only because I almost cried when another girl in my program told me that she looks to my advertising writing (mine!) for inspiration. I can say it because at least right now, today, I believe what they say. And I believe that I’ve come a long way and that even though the road ahead will beat down on my soul again, I believe that if I want to badly enough, I can keep going further.

And I believe that the last two years had something to do with that.

BAGEL: CREAM CHEESE:: MAN: __________ (you finish it because, guess what y’all? I never have to take another GRE again!)

2009-05-25T10:39:00.001-05:00

Right about the time I wrote the last post on here, my last semester of grad school suddenly turned from spending weekends gallivanting around downtown (and spending weekdays planning said gallivanting) to a mad, mad blur of headline writing, PhotoShop fumbling, InDesign layouts, screaming at iWeb, stalking industry contacts, and a few token panic episodes. I had one foot in Austin and school and the other foot in Dallas and job networking. And straddling 180 miles of Texas country, it turns out, turns me into an even bigger ditz than the one I was that time I stood in front of the door to the stairwell, wondering why in the hell I couldn’t find the elevator down button.

Which means that I’ve spent the last two months on an extended, two-city ditz-crime spree. There was the day, for example, that I decided to stop by Einstein Bagels to pick up some cream cheese. It wasn’t the shop that I usually go to, but they’re all about the same, right? So you can imagine my shock to find that there were no cream cheese coolers in this one.

But I’d come to Einstein’s to get some cream cheese and I WAS GOING TO GET SOME CREAM CHEESE. So I went up to the counter to get it there.

Him: How can I help you?

Me: (brightly, of course) Hi, I’m just looking for the cream cheese.

Pause as man looks at me for a long time. So long that I start wondering if I have spinach AND lipstick on my front teeth.

Him: (totally straight-faced) We don’t have cream cheese.

The voice inside of my head: AN EINSTEIN’S BAGELS? WITHOUT CREAM CHEESE? Where do I call to get THIS taken care of? This is like a butterfly without wings, a car without wheels, a man without his-

Him: Now, there’s a bagel place next door. They probably have cream cheese.

(Which is when the God-given ability to evaluate and deduce that got me into graduate school finally kicked in. I looked at the food they were serving. Green beans? I looked at the menu. Rotisserie Chicken? I looked at the guy’s uniform. Boston Mar-)

I gasp and put both hands over my mouth.

Me: (like a genius) I walked into Boston Market!

And then the entire restaurant got completely silent and the diners watched in wonder while the universe pushed the slow-motion button and I skulked right out of Boston Market to go next door.

And that, y’all, was just one of the many, many events that could’ve ended with the graduate school police handcuffing me, throwing me into a big yellow school bus and putting me on trial for STILL TRYING TO ACT LIKE SHE BELONGS IN GRADUATE SCHOOL.

The way to my mother’s heart is through the cacao

2009-02-23T20:09:00.003-06:00

Last Christmas morning, as I unwrapped a 10 oz. box of GODIVA chocolate and a simple, silver framed heart with the message, “Break the rules or you’ll miss all the fun,” I squealed with delight and my mother’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my gosh. And that box is ALL DARK CHOCOLATE.”

“Well, of course. I only eat dark chocolate.”

“Yes, I know that. I just can’t believe he knows you so well that he could give you such a thoughtful, personal gift.”

“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Mom? You’re not the only one who buys me fine chocolate.”

A few days later, as we passed by all of the GODIVA gift boxes at Macy's, she couldn’t resist checking out the current chocolatier market prices (since you know, she usually sticks to buying this). And when she turned back around to look at me, I could see the change in her face.

It’s a very special day when your mother realizes that your gay boyfriend is more than just a fling.

And even if the bitches did catch up to me, he promised that he would throw on his pumps, drive all the way down to Austin and kick some serious ass

2009-02-23T20:07:00.000-06:00

Email exchange last Friday between me and my gay boyfriend as we discussed my going to a gay bar that night to celebrate Mardi Gras:

But my question is what do the pre-op trannies flash to get beads? And as a straight, small-boobed girl, will I be able to get any beads?

If they won’t give you any beads, then just take some off the bitches’ necks! Then run as fast as possible.

Damn, does this mean I'll NEVER be Britney?

2009-02-11T22:54:00.006-06:00

Recently said to me by a school friend (on behalf of a handful of friends I’ve known for almost 2 years now):

You're NEVER going to tell us, are you? No matter how hard we try, you’re never going to tell us about your secret life with your secret boyfriends and your secret weekends.

Not bad. It takes some people three years to finally figure that out.

Reeking of Sweet

2009-01-21T11:41:00.005-06:00

Yesterday, as I walked down Guadalupe Street and wished for the 639th time that I could roll a great big stick of 100-prescription-strength deodorant over the entire street, I braced myself for the usual waves of revulsion that pulse through my soul at the start of every new semester - one hundred and sixteen days of endless academic drudgery.

But as I bravely put one foot in front of another, instead of wanting to catch a plane to a 16-week vacation on a beach with white sand and turquoise water, I realized that I felt perfectly fine right there on that stinky street. In fact, I felt extremely thankful. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was on my way to watch the presidential inauguration of a man who I believe can lead a nation of people who are making great strides to rise above intolerance. I was also on my way to start my very last semester as a girl who didn’t always believe in her own ability to actually earn a Master of Arts – a degree that is now a short four months away. Guadalupe never smelled so sweet.

But in any other situation, OF COURSE I'd write two paragraphs about the cowboy hats

2008-12-26T17:34:00.004-06:00

Recently, I had to get a letter of recommendation from a faculty member. I wanted to ask my writing teacher (who was also my creative advertising teacher last semester) not only because she’s a writer, but also because I was pretty sure she’d write something a little more specific than “bebe Me is a fine student in a fine program.” Of course this is also the teacher who will still look at fifty of my taglines and approve ONE of them. With reservation. Fortunately, she seems to genuinely like some of my other writing – most recently, a humorous essay that she assigned and that I wrote in the style of this blog. Oh yes, that would be a four-paged, single-spaced essay of COTTON CANDY FOR THE BRAIN. But it was her response to my cotton candy for the brain that gave me the courage to ask her to recommend me as someone who could maybe one day have a scintilla of potential to write for advertising.

And the Gods of Advertising must have been looking out for me because she was happy to write one for me. My feeling that she’d write a thoughtful letter was confirmed when she asked me to write two paragraphs for her: one about my greatest strength and one about my greatest accomplishment. Since owning two cowboy hats with attachable tiaras probably doesn’t count as a strength or an accomplishment in this situation, I sat down at my blank laptop screen and tried to figure out my greatest strength.

I’d answered this questions plenty of times for job interviews so I had a short (very short) list of things I usually said: annoying optimism, the ability to see the “big picture,” the ability to see many possibilities for every problem and that I can write pretty well. But as I considered all of my options, I realized that this past year had quite possibly killed all of my strengths and their little dogs too. All I could think about was last spring, when I told everyone that it would probably be best for me and all of my creative partners if I died before critique because I couldn’t think of any more possibilities to solve the problems in our campaigns, because I didn't seem to have even one smart headline coming from wherever it is that any of my mediocre headline writing comes from and because any future for me in the “big picture” of advertising was about as real as a three-headed dragon.

And for a minute or so, I felt a bit sad. But then, like any good eternal optimist, I remembered that this was a different semester and a fresh beginning. Surely, something had changed for the better. And then it hit me - I now thought that any future for me in advertising was about as real as a one-headed dragon. And everybody knows that a one-headed dragon is way more realistic than a three-headed one. And maybe the next semester, it would be a green dragon instead of a spotted teal one. Glorious! So, feeling relieved and much more like myself again, I wrote her a paragraph about my optimism.

It must’ve been believable because my teacher really did write a lovely letter for me. And on the last day of class, when she wished us luck on our careers as advertising copywriters, I’m sure it was pure coincidence that she looked straight at me when she added, “or a career as another kind of writer.” I’m absolutely sure of it. Because I am an unrelenting optimist. Either that or an extremely good blonde. And bloody hell, I’m damn proud to be both.

Quote of the week

2008-12-19T23:25:00.000-06:00

I kind of like my boobs.

-My art director (different one from this art director)

Ok, ok. So it was the end of a loooong week before final critique during which we all spend too many stressed hours in the creative lab, saying and doing stupid things. Also, she wasn't actually talking about HER boobs so much as the ones she implied in one of her executions. But how were we supposed to know that?

P.S.

2008-12-07T18:33:00.003-06:00

Here I am pursuing a future of writing in some sort of professional capacity and the only adult books that have influenced my life in a significant way are chick lit and an out-of-print self-help book. Clearly, I need to take myself more seriously. It’s time to start reading and writing about things that will change people’s lives. Very, very serious things.

So I’m going to start now with a thought-provoking piece on a very current event, that event being the celebration of National Cotton Candy Day:

It all began in the 1400s when Italians discovered that they could make a fantastic dessert by melting sugar and spinning it with a fork. Over the next four years, spun sugar emerged as a popular dessert for very rich people. In 1899, a couple of guys from Tennessee decided it was about time that all the regular people be able to enjoy a little sugar. So they invented a big machine that would use centrifugal force to turn sugar, flavoring and coloring into what they decided to call Fairy Floss. In 1904, the guys took Fairy Floss to the St. Louis World Fair and the sugary star was born. In 1920, someone decided to start calling it cotton candy. Cotton candy comes in pink, blue, rainbow and probably a lot of other colors and if you were to eat it for every meal, every day, you’d have a lot of cavities.

Serious. I used the word centrifugal.

The last time I'll post an assignment from my writing class

2008-12-07T18:29:00.004-06:00

A short list of books that have had a significant impact on my life

1. A Light in the Attic (Shel Silverstein)

Oh how I loved this book when I was little – these crazy stories/rhymes made me laugh and laugh and it was my first experience with words that were used not only to tell a story, but also as devices (rhyming, assonance, onomatopoeia, etc.).

2. Ramona the Pest (Beverly Cleary)

This was the first “big book” I read. “Big books” were interesting! Ramona was my girl for years – I was just as frustrated with grown-ups and even though I was more shy and less impulsive than her, I shared some of the same urges to make trouble.

3. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (Judy Blume)

Every girl’s rite of passage! This was only the beginning of my love for stories that center on the inimitable experience of being a girl. But as I read it over and over again as I got older, it also helped me figure out that one of things that makes Judy Blume’s writing so engaging is her ability to use ordinary details to illustrate reality.

4. Jobsmarts for Twentysomethings: A Street-smart Script for Career Success (Bradley Richardson)

When I thought I was going to die because I had no idea how to find a job as a recent graduate with a ridiculous degree, this book gave me the courage to start networking and to feel confident about finding a job I liked and knowing how to act professionally. The language has just enough attitude to speak to twentysomethings, but the content is solid and helpful. Everything this guy said would happen happened. I bought this book for all of my friends and family until it went out of print.

5. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)

There is plenty of badly written chick lit out there with appallingly cliché characters and stupid plots (which I admit to reading anyway), but Confessions of a Shopaholic is not one of them. Even if the content seems fluffy (shopping), the characters have depth and the writing is never awkward. Either that or I just really identify with British, self-deprecating humor.

6. Sloppy Firsts (Megan McCafferty)

I am possibly the oldest teen fiction enthusiast on this Earth – well, besides the authors who write it. When I was a teen, I read serious adult books (like Chaim Potok novels or biographies about classical music composers), but as an adult, I started reading young adult novels because I love the concept of self-discovery – this thing that teens are doing every day. There is something really invigorating about immersing myself in reading about the painful and exhilarating feelings surrounding it and Megan McCafferty does it best. I vividly remember the first time I read this book because I’d have to keep putting the book down and saying (out loud to myself), “How the hell did she get inside my brain?”

7. Dreamland (Sarah Dessen)

I read this teen novel right at a time where I was grappling with a situation in which a good friend of mine was about to marry her horrible, toxic, abusive boyfriend. I was so frustrated because I just couldn’t understand how someone got to that place. This book offered an interesting perspective from a girl that let herself be abused for a long time. My friend still married the bastard and I still couldn’t reach her, but I felt a little more settled that I understood at least some of the reasons why girls fall prey to that poison.

I’d pay with cash, but then I wouldn’t get my advantage miles

2008-12-06T10:32:00.002-06:00

It’s that time of the semester. When I have so much to do that the more I try to motivate myself to do it, the more I want to sit in front of the TV and watch Frasier reruns. The time when my usual love of knowing that there is not just one answer is replaced by my wanting to scream at my creative professors, “IS THIS IDEA RIGHT OR WRONG? I HAVE A DEADLINE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!” And it’s also the time when I start going to a lot of print shops. I wish I could say that I’m cool enough to go to the funkier, less-known, independent print shops. But once an art director sends me a file that’s ready to print, I will immediately go to the nearest shop that’s open at the time so that I can print and mount my ads as soon as possible. Just in case on the day before critique, the universe decides to curse my hands with an uncontrollable shake as I try to cut straight, clean lines with that damn X-ACTO knife.

So I often find myself at a 24-hour Fed-ex Kinko’s. Which is all fine and good until it’s time to pay. Because the credit card machines there don’t let you sign outside of the box. Every single time, it makes me start over. The first time the girl behind the counter said matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t like it when you go outside the box,” I felt so stifled by the bloody box and the girl’s bored expression that I almost threw down the stylus so that I could run outside into the parking lot and tell all the people to RUN FOR IT OR YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF THE DAMN BOX!

I still get that urge every time I’m there. And the urge is even stronger when I’ve spent the last couple of weeks biting my tongue in front of professors and worrying about eleventh-hour hand tremors. But I don’t ever give in because the last thing I need right now is for a bevy of very controlled, meticulous Kinko’s security officers to drag me into a back room, subdue me and then flag my name on all of their records: WATCH OUT FOR THIS CUSTOMER. CANNOT CONTROL HER OWN SIGNATURE.

My cousins can beat up your cousins

2008-12-05T23:16:00.003-06:00

My mother’s oldest sister had five kids. They are a loud, rowdy, affectionate family who gives a group hug the same way a St. Bernard accidentally knocks you down when it’s just trying to say hello. And just as you’ve managed to get yourself off the ground, they’ll finish it off with an enthusiastic booty smack and a wholehearted “BOOYAH!”

Last month, I spent a week in Canada with my five cousins, my uncle, my grandmother, my parents and other various members of my family because on November 3rd, my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt, passed away unexpectedly. In the days following, our family did our best to understand that this lovely lady who meant so many different things to so many different people was no longer just on the other side of an email or a phone call. But even as our hearts ached for the daughter, mother, sister and aunt who loved learning so much that she got three bachelors of science, our smiles persisted. Because how could we NOT smile at the memory of her being so engrossed in reading whatever most recently caught her brain’s attention, that we could sing and dance around her in big purple cow costumes and she’d never even notice? We smiled because when she and her sisters were all starting to leave their small French-Canadian town for “big cities” like, you know, WINNIPEG, my aunt was the one who educated her younger sisters on the difference between a friendly man and a sleazy perv. We smiled because she was endearingly straight-forward and because she was the only one who knew how to smooth over the occasional collisions that occur in an extended family that includes more than a couple strong and opinionated personalities. And we smiled because she loved to smile.

My aunt made me feel special from the time she’d send me hand-sewn nightgowns with my name embroidered across the front every year to the time in my twenties when she made me feel really special and yet totally normal during a time when I was especially worried that my not-so-conservative choices would alienate my entire extended family. Of course, it didn’t. And in the last couple of years, her kids have made a particularly conscious effort to embrace me unconditionally So I smiled and cried as I watched my cousins say their final goodbyes to her resting body at the funeral home. Shoulder to shoulder, arms embracing, crying, laughing, whispering memories, jokes and love – a testament of their mother’s sweet, funny, loving spirit.

And for the rest of the week, I wanted to lift and support my loud, rowdy cousins and uncle. But as usual, they gave me more collective love (and smacks) than I felt I could give back in return. Because they don’t know any other way to live. And oh, how I love them – as much as one little, sometimes prissy, not especially loud-voiced, non-booty-smackin’ person can.

Friend quote of the week via email. And just for her, count how many times I can write Ben Folds in a 60-word post.

2008-11-02T10:00:00.002-06:00

“I am a Ben Folds evangelist!”*

"...I think I cold live happily on a steady diet of Doritos and his last 4
albums."

-Ben Fold’s most dedicated fan after I told her that I’d just taken my first step onto the Ben Folds bandwagon

*That’s how she wrote it, but what I read was, “I am a BEN FOLDS EVANGELIST!!”

Forgive me, for I know not what I write

2008-11-02T09:57:00.002-06:00

Three of the greatest feelings in the world are: stepping into a perfect gold stiletto, biting into a Tamborina NOKA Chocolate truffle. and finally remembering a word that has been taking over your life because it’s been sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue for weeks and refusing to roll off of it.

Yesterday, I almost experienced the last one. I say “almost’ because I had to use the one look reverse dictionary (this, the glorious tool that changed my life this year) in order to “remember” the word “malapropism.” And the reason I was so urgently trying to remember it was because I committed a malapropism right here on this very blog just a few weeks ago*. And ever since I realized the error of my ways and finished cringing and blushing furiously here at my keyboard, I’ve been debating whether or not to correct it or to keep pretending I was being intentionally, but not necessarily skillfully, subversive.

I still haven’t decided whether or not to change it and because I am just THAT crazy, the debate in my head will probably keep raging on until some other ridiculous issue takes over the part of my brain that handles ridiculous issues. But the good news is that because of my idiocy, I almost experienced one of the greatest feelings in the world.

The glass, my friends, is always half full.

*Of course I’m not going to tell you. But if you noticed it too, I’ll tell you if you’re right. Or, if I’m really lucky (because a good, healthy cringe and blush is just what I need sometimes), you’ll discover yet another one that I haven’t even noticed.

One of us didn’t grow up in Texas

2008-10-25T09:15:00.003-05:00

Recent conversation between me, my friend who's also from Texas and my other friend who went to HS in San Francisco (after we'd decided that it would be really cool to have a “Portfolio Class Prom.” I know, I know, but we have class from 5 – 8 pm. Every idea sounds AWESOME by 6:30):

“We need to get those big, huge flowers with the ribbons flowing down from them to wear on our arms.”

Shocked silence.

“Are you talking about a MUM? Those are for homecoming!”

“And you don’t wear those on your ARM!”

“I don’t know, what’s the difference?”

Sound of jaws dropping.

“HOMECOMING IS IN THE FALL!”

“And it’s about FOOTBALL.”

“Ok, but don’t you wear flowers to prom too?”

“You wear a corsage to prom.”

“Which is in the spring.”

“But they’re still flowers, right?”

“Different flowers. It’s totally different. TOTALLY. DIFFERENT.”

“Alright, THAT then. We need to get that. Geez, who KNOWS shit like this?”

Peals of mad, gasp-filled laughter due to visions of showing up to prom with plastic megaphones and ribbons with your name written on them in glitter.

I write haikus now

2008-10-16T20:44:00.003-05:00

But only when it's another in-class writing assignment (this time, the topic being rice cakes):

Add your own toppings
Nutella, peanut butter
Diet food my ass

Because three "yays" out of an entire page of "nays" is better than seeing my entire future crumple in front of my eyes

2008-10-16T20:18:00.007-05:00

A typical in-class critique for me means that I’ve brought in taglines and headlines, of which 99% I feel are crap; 98% on a good day. Last week, it was 102%. It was also the day my professor decided to “help me out” by reading every one of those crap lines aloud to get a “yay” or “nay” from the class.

I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.

So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:

“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”

*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet

And I never even touched a slot machine

2008-10-16T00:04:00.003-05:00

Things I discovered during my recent trip to Las Vegas:

-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good

I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.

But then again, a glove would cover up all my big, shiny rings

2008-10-15T23:27:00.016-05:00

When my friends at school are standing outside tapping the ashes from their cigarettes after another coffee-filled all-nighter and calling out, “Hey Dallas Princess!” or “You! Healthy little fart, yes you,” I know they are talking to me. I know this because they are the ones who took me to a gritty bar downtown and then wanted to crawl into the toilets and die of embarrassment when I vehemently demanded to know WHERE THE SOAP WAS. These are the friends who regularly get my chirpy text messages at 5 A.M. on my way to the gym. And by some inexplicable act of God, despite all of this, they have not yet banished me from their regular ash-tapping caucuses in the courtyard between classes.

I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?

Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.

I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.

And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.

Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.

When you're so immersed in a semester that you start posting schoolwork on your blog

2008-10-11T17:14:00.003-05:00

My response to a recent in-class writing assignment loosely based on 55 flash fiction. Our only rules were that it be 55 words, be about death or love and written in 10 minutes:

Autumn is so ugly. Beautiful, blazing New England fall foliage, whatever. Those brilliant reds and oranges say, "dying." Leaves are dying, summer is dying, strappy shoe season is dying. Boutiques start bringing out brown and beige and brownish beige. But most importantly, autumn is the harbinger of a new school year. Which means I'm dying.

Quote of the Week

2008-09-24T13:04:00.002-05:00

If I ever decided to get married for some reason, fuck the dress. I'm getting the mattress.

-My art director on Vera Wang mattresses

Vamp in Wonderland

2008-09-10T12:06:00.005-05:00

When you’re in a degree program in which all the males are 12 years old (under 30, whatever) and half of them are Artsy-Fartsy, a good dose of raw grown-up testosterone is rare. For someone like me, triple-digit degree testosterone comes in the form of a man who likes sports, beer, math and a smart girl in a short skirt.

So you can imagine my coquettish delight when a whole gaggle of testosterone-filled men came down recently to hang out by the Pedernales River. Since the last time I’d hung out with them all together in their collective man’s man glory was quite a while ago, I was in my short skirt and at the river before you could say “men.”

And then came the uninterrupted hours of soaking up the brilliant scent of sweat and masculinity. There was swimming, drinking, card games and shameless flirting. They blasted music that made me want to kill myself just a little bit (a good indication of triple-digit testosterone), accused each other of cheating, burst into spontaneous air guitar and called me out for using my feminine wiles to distract them from winning. But I mean, what else was I supposed to do when the tassel of beads fell off the front of my bikini top? Of course I had to inch up my tank top to replace it right away or it might’ve gotten lost. The fact that it happened in the middle of a game of Scat was just a bonus. And even though they didn’t fall for it, they loved it. And that’s all I wanted – you know, just a few moments of all their hungry, testosterone-lit eyes on me. Ok, ok, several moments. And by that I mean almost the entire evening.

There are some who may gasp, Disgusting! Aren’t you letting them objectify you?

These men are the same men who were even more turned on when I fell out of my chair laughing because one of them called a xylophone a harmonophone (“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that in front of a MUSIC MAJOR”). They are the ones who ask me what I’m doing in school, listen intently and respond intelligently. They laugh at my stories and ask for my opinion in every discussion. When I spend time with them individually, every single one of them treats me better than some of the men I’ve actually dated. They respect every significant other I bring around and they respect me.

If that doesn’t drive a girl to place her Scat cash winnings (and that was from the game BEFORE the beaded tassel) in her bikini top in return for an increased dose of respectful testosterone, then I don’t know what does.

Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.

When I look in the freshly Windexed mirror, I see my mother’s zeal

2008-08-26T22:37:00.005-05:00

Like any good germaphobe, my personal collection of cleaning supplies include (but is not limited to) Lysol mildew remover, Scrubbing Bubbles shower cleaner, Scrubbing Bubbles disposable toilet brushes and disinfectant wipes, Swiffer wet jet pads, Swiffer dry cloths, Soft Scrub deep clean foaming cleanser, rubber gloves and several area-specific toothbrushes and sponges.

But why?, my mother asked recently.

Because, I answered, I grew up in a house that was so spotless that people took showers before they came to visit.

Yes, well, she responded virtuously, all I need is a bottle of Lysol and some old rags.

Which led to a new sense of responsibility and a reevaluation of my bathroom cabinet. Did I really need 10 different cleaners for my 600 sq. ft. apartment? After all, I am the daughter of a woman who has mastered the art of simplicity.

But just as I'd resolved to trade the contents of my cabinet in for a bottle of good old-fashioned Lysol, I suddenly remembered that the woman who has mastered the art of simplicity is the same woman who regularly buys eight pounds of toasted almond dark chocolate bark from the Whole Foods candy counter. That’s four boxes full of $12/lb chocolate candy. In one purchase. By a woman who weighs less than the total cost.

And that is when I changed my Swiffer wet jet pad and tore gleefully into my new 3-pak of shower cleaner and an unopened bag of sponges. I mean, it’s the least I can do as the daughter of a woman who needs only a bottle of Lysol, some old rags and EIGHT POUNDS OF CHOCOLATE.

In the kettle’s defense, he’s also a bad-ass athlete, outdoorsman, poker player and owner of a wicked cool motorbike

2008-08-24T19:58:00.001-05:00

“What??!!?? The SOUNDTRACK to Battlestar Galactica? You’re even dorkier than I thought you were when I found out that you watch the show! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Shut up and listen. This is good stuff.”

“Ha ha ha ha! I can’t wait to tell everyone you own this”

“WILL YOU JUST LISTEN? This is the best track …”

“Ha ha ha! Dork, dork, dork... g minor.”

“g minor?”

“Yeah, this track. You know, it’s in g minor…”

Said the violinist teapot to the Sci-Fi watching kettle.

Fall Shmall. At least I saved the lovely white Benetton leather.

2008-08-17T15:46:00.008-05:00

I have a tolerance that lets me drink about ½ a cocktail before I start finishing sentences that I forgot I started. So I expected that something might happen when I went to the Fall Creek Vineyards Annual Grape Stomp and Harvest Festival in Tow, Texas.

Sure enough, one minute I was gliding along the dirt road in my white shorts, white bag and pretty white shoes
and the next minute, I was staring at the little dirt road pebbles that were 3 inches from my face and desperately reaching for my handbag so that I could brush off the dirt before it seeped into the pristine white leather.

Absolutely, I expected this to happen. It’s just that I thought it would happen after I’d had 8 kinds of wine instead of before I’d even made it to the entrance of the festival.

And do they think that kitten heels are found on furry paws?

2008-08-17T14:30:00.006-05:00

The Boy: How tall are you in heels?

Me (after having picked myself off the floor from fainting at the complexity of this question, my mind reeling from mentally going through my entire collection of heels): You are asking me an extremely complicated question.

Have they never noticed that 4-inch heels are, you know, about 2 ½ inches higher than 1½ -inch heels?

(By the way, I did that math about 10 times in my head to make sure it was right, so if anyone tells me that it’s wrong, I will throw myself out the window and grudgingly admit that The Boy at least knows how to add simple fractions.)

One short year of purist AP English, one long career of writing headlines for milk ads

2008-08-05T10:02:00.006-05:00

Me at 17 from my back corner seat in my high school English class:

Cliff Notes? For WUSSIES. I am a purist, damnit. (even though I’d used them for the past 3 years) Yes, anyone who STILL uses Cliff Notes for additional insight needs to learn to come up with her OWN f-in' ideas. And anyone who uses them for the summaries? OMG, I don’t even know where to start.

Me at 32 from my front row seat in graduate school:

Don’t they have Cliff Notes for these readings? You know, just a little summary or something. This is hard.

After this, I solemnly swear that I will try not to mention crime shows ever again. Because I don't NEED them. I can stop at anytime. Amen.

2008-07-29T10:43:00.004-05:00

Last night, I received an email from my mother:

I was totally hooked on the travel channel today. I was watching Bizzare foods with Andrew Zimmern. Zimmern was on all afternoon! I watched Taiwan, Japan, India, Vietnam, Trinidad and Tobago, and Mexico.

My mother does not write quite as, you know, PROPERLY as I do, but if she did, she would've absolutely written "TOTALLY HOOKED" and "ALL AFTERNOON" and would have put a couple more exclamation points after "Mexico." And at the end, she would've added "All of them. In one afternoon!" Also, she would've put in some footnotes and inserted several links. But most importantly, her last sentence would've been: You do know that when I tell you that you watch entirely too many crime shows in one day, what I'm really saying is, "Give up the remote because I NEED TO WATCH THE TRAVEL CHANNEL!"

Alright, she might not write that last part, but I mean, please. At least my regular viewing of investigative journalism enhances my relationships with family and old friends.

Which is why I'm fully expecting our next gathering of family and friends to include several platters of bizarre foods from Tobago.

Like a toy fish in a pond full of Koi

2008-07-24T14:59:00.013-05:00

An unexpected ring of truth from this week's ponderous quagmire of academic reading, which is, tragically, EVEN WORSE than academic writing:

Even Mary Wells developed a kind of feminist consciousness. She still did not like "militant libbers," as she called them, and she regretted that her eminence kept clients from flirting with her. ("It was more fun when they thought I was a sexy blonde.")

-from Stephen R. Fox's The Mirror Makers: A History of American Advertising and its Creators*

And this, my friends, might help to explain a small fraction of why I stayed at the stone showroom job for way too long. (the blonde and fun part, not the eminence part because if that were the case, you'd think I'd be happily collecting commission checks instead of plowing through scholarly texts, acting as if I belong in the graduate school pond)

*I feel the need to add that this is a SMALL excerpt taken out of context and does not represent the book's nor the author's view of feminism in any way. I also, as some may have noticed, seem to love writing footnotes.

No longer strangers, enjoying a beautiful sunset by the lake

2008-07-20T19:28:00.006-05:00

Drawing inspiration from Angie , I’d like to begin this post by sharing my own thoughts for a word or two.

FLUMMOXED! is the look you get when you show up at someone’s 30th birthday party at his family lake house and say, “Happy Birthday, John*! So nice to meet you!”

Flummoxed is the look you get when you further explain, “Oh, right. I’m Carl*’s friend and since Carl’s out of town, I drove out here with Ken* who I’ve met only once before. But he can TOTALLY vouch for me because I just spent an entire hour in the car with him and I did NOT manipulate him into handing over his wallet, his keys and his SOUL. Even though I was trained in sales and am now schooling in the ways of advertising and as EVERYONE KNOWS, that is what we do.”

Just kidding. Yes, I did show up to a total stranger’s birthday party because his roommate who is out of town invited me and I drove out there with an almost perfect stranger because I really, really wanted to go to this party at the lake but didn’t want to get lost in the back roads of Texas Hill Country. But OF COURSE the last part isn’t true. I mean, please. I’ve only been in sales and advertising for less than 10 years. But I’ve been a girl for 32 years. We have much better things than money and souls on which to waste our natural manipulative skills . We have parties at the lake to finagle into, for Pete’s sake.

*Fake names of course

Perfectly grounded in reality and never, EVER carried away by an overactive imagination. Not EVER.

2008-07-20T18:41:00.005-05:00

I saw an old friend last week. And Stephanie is exactly the same as she was the last time I saw her when we were both 5 years old. She still has the same dark hair and eyes, she still wears the same girly pastel dresses and she can still do the coolest things. Like breathing. Without any oxygen!

Because Stephanie, as I found out many years later, is what they call an imaginary friend.

And clearly, I haven’t seen Stephanie for a while because I am now a grown woman who has learned to channel my imagination through much more sophisticated avenues. Like “thinking outside of the box.” Or, oh I don’t know, refining an extremely reasonable and healthy sense of writing in hyperbole.

(As for the rest of my life, I am a very rational human being. I mean, how many other women can say that she developed an overwhelming ~~fear of~~ sense of reality about committed long-term relationships while still in high school?)

So the day before Stephanie came back into my life, I went to get my mail. And when I opened my mailbox, there was an official post office key waiting for me right at the front of my box. My initial thought was, What the hell? My initial action was to stare blankly at the thing for a full 30 seconds (because I am a graduate student and we are very smart that way) before I picked it up and read the key chain, which said that it was property of the post office and that if found, was to be dropped into any U.S. mail receptacle. So of course, I figured the mailperson left it in my box by accident and I immediately dropped it right back in the box for outgoing mail.

Later that day, I started thinking about it again and it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t an accident. After all, there was that time in Dallas that we got warnings about some suspected mail theft that was going on in our apartment complex.

OMG. SOMEONE IS STEALING MAIL AND TRYING TO FRAME ME! They put that key in there so that MY fingerprints will be ALL OVER IT! How could I be so careless?

Immediately, I started figuring out what I was going to say when the police called.

The next day, I checked my mail again only to find the SAME KEY. In MY mailbox. AGAIN. Of course, I jumped back and put my hands behind my back because there was no way in hell I was going to touch that thing again. Except that it looked a little different today. So I leaned closer and saw that they key chain was flipped on the other side. And this other side said something about having a package in #8.

#8? I looked to the right and saw the larger mailbox labeled “P8.” The same larger mailbox I always thought belonged to, logically, a larger apartment unit. A unit so large that it was called a "penthouse." Or a "palace."

Was someone in the "penthouse" trying to FRAME ME? Unbelievable! I mean, un-bloody-belieava- Wait a minute. Unless “P” stands for…

Which is when I saw my old friend Stephanie. And when I started to think about what the mailperson must think of me. Me who recently mailed out a stack of thank you cards, each with insufficient postage. Me who even more recently angrily wrote “RETURN TO SENDER!” on a letter and tried to mail it back without crossing out the barcode.

And that’s how I decided that the next time I drive up to the mailboxes to collect my mail and the mailperson is standing in a place where he might at ALL be able to see me open my box, Stephanie and I are going to just drive right on by and come back later.

Maybe I should let them take my violin card

2008-07-10T16:27:00.003-05:00

You know those people who are SO BAD at hearing lyrics that they go around singing about “watermelon phone lights” in a hip hop song?

Well I’m one of those people and I’m totally cool with it. But that was before this morning when I found out that the lyrics to Jessie McCartney’s Leavin’ are actually “flying on a g5, g5.” You see, what I’ve been hearing is “blah blah blah blah G-flat, G-flat.”

Why do I care about this? Because those FAKE lyrics took me to a very, very dark place. One that smells like rosin dust and never hears the light of Britney Spears. Because ALL I could think about every time I heard these lyrics was that I HATE G-FLAT. It’s an awkward note on the violin, it’s an obscenely stupid key with 6 bloody flats, and F-sharp is SO MUCH BETTER.

Every time the song came on, this would rage on in my head and afterward, I’d be completely pissed because I’d just WASTED 3 minutes of my life.

But now I’m scared that when I hear this song, even though I now know that he is singing about a plane, I will still be thinking about E-flat minor. And then I will start thinking about the time I got in a screaming match with a former client who had a stick up his ass because he was a songwriter and to HIM, a G-flat sounds exactly the same as an F-sharp. Which, as all violinists know, is a LOAD OF CRAP. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?

Holy crap, do you SEE how annoying I am in that dark place? I need to RELAX.

Excuse me while I go light a lavender candle, put on Baby One More Time, and remove the violin from out of my ass.

Sometimes you have to dumb it down, glam it up and add in a little David Caruso

2008-07-09T21:50:00.006-05:00

The day I learned to spell g-e-o-p-h-y-s-i-c-i-s-t (officially because I needed to fill out those assignments at school that say “My father is a _________,” but as the offspring of two pathological spellers, this was also a fun family activity) was the day I started having no idea what my father does for a living.

Back then, I knew that my father went to work from Monday through Friday in a 3-piece suit and a brief case and when I asked him what he did there, there was a really loooong pause before he finally said, “Uh. Well, I –“ And he looked down at his little right-brained girl with the crayon in her hand and finished, “I find oil in the Earth.” At least that’s what he said until we had the fun family activity in which we learned how to spell p-e-t-r-o-l-e-u-m.

During the summer that I was 19, I worked at his company as an intern. And when you are a violin performance major working as an intern at an oil & gas company, you get relegated to the basement where you spend all day panicking that all these hours of filing and entering data instead of PRACTICING is surely going to result in completely forgetting how to do left hand pizzicato.

I was still curious about my petroleum-finding father however, so the highlight of my day was going up to his office to figure out, once and for all, WHAT HE DOES. But by the end of the summer, all I could deduce was that he spent all day looking at big colorful wavy lines on the computer screen or on printed out graphs.

THIS?? THIS is what takes my father on trips around the world and makes his signature worth millions of dollars? Still, I was afraid to ask him what it all meant because for some reason, just the sound of the word “seismic” made me laugh uncontrollably and my father just didn’t get this. And I was pretty sure that he didn’t want me to ask him what it all meant either. I mean, what geophysicist wants to explain seismic waves to his 19-year-old daughter who was wearing her music-conservatory-in-the-Northeast fashion to his North Texas corporate office?

A couple of years ago, in the middle of my second career breakdown and job search, long after I’d stopped wearing bohemian shirts with sunflowers on them (shrudder), I figured it was about time to look up the job responsibilities of a geophysicist. It went something like this:

• Responsible for the depth conversion and integration of 2D and 3D structure maps with well tops and gridding maps for input into the Petrel static model
• Interpreting 2D and 3D seismic data sets
• Integrating well logs, VSPâ€™s into interpretation of seismic data
• Helping to build and modify static geologic models with geophysical attribute maps of lithology, facies, stratigraphy, and thickness

I immediately went back to telling people that my dad “finds petroleum in the Earth.”

But about a month ago, my father asked me to proofread a course description and instructor biography for a class that he will be teaching later this year. And that is when I found out that my father is not just any geophysicist. He is a geophysicist and ”longtime advocate of proper depth conversion.” All of a sudden, I felt very responsible. How can I be the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion and still not know what my father really does, let alone how I feel about proper depth conversion or about any kind of depth conversion?

So last weekend, the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion finally asked her father to really explain what he does. And y'all. It turns out that my father is actually a Crime Scene Investigator! Well, if you count the formation of the Earth’s crust as a crime scene. He actually prefers to use the analogy of a doctor who interprets sonograms, but is it not just a little more exciting to think of subsurface sand structures as crafty criminals who will not be outsmarted by a depth converting geophysicist? See, it turns out that interpreting seismic data is like interpreting DNA and other forensic evidence to figure out how the crime happened. (formation, crime, whatever) And when you can figure out how it happened, then you know where to get the petroleum and suck it all out into the open. You know, the way Horatio always gets the truth all out into the open in CSI: Miami.

Sure, it took 32 years, but I can finally say that I KNOW WHAT MY FATHER DOES. My father, the geophysicist, outwits subsurface structures in order to uncover the grisly petroleum.

And just in case you’re wondering: yes I too am an advocate of proper depth conversion. Because not believing in it would be like not believing that Horatio’s team should properly dust for fingerprints. Can you imagine the ending of THAT episode?

Who says TV doesn’t make you smarter?

Hoping that everyone enjoyed the holiday weekend as much as I did

2008-07-07T22:16:00.003-05:00

During my visit to my parents' house:

Mom: What are you watching?

Me: Forensic Files

pause as she watches for a moment

Mom: This is about a murder!

Me: Mmm-hmmm.

Hours later:

Mom: Now what are you watching?

Me: 20/20 on WE

pause

Mom: Another murder story?

Me: Investigative journalism

The next day

Mom: Is this 20/20 AGAIN?

Me: No, this is Cold Case Files on A & E

Mom: Is this the kind of thing you ALWAYS watch? What happened to Judging Amy reruns?

Me: Shhhh. They're about to get a big break in the case...

Later

Me: Can I change the channel?

Mom: Ok.

channel is changed to "48 Hours Mystery"

Mom: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Me (looking over in surprise): What's wrong?

A few other moments that prompted looks of incredulity and sometimes horror from my parents:

• When I put a full tablespoon of Nutella* on one small strawberry to eat while my mother delicately spread a thin layer on an 8-inch crepe which she was about to eat with several small slices of fruit. After which, I proceeded to spread half of the jar onto my own crepe.
• When I was 1 ½ -ing a recipe and said, “2 tablespoons x 1 ½ is 2 ½ , right?”
• When I crossed several of my toes at once as we were all chatting in the living room (What? I’ve got very long toes and I’m telling you, it feels really good – like stretching.)
• When in the middle of a conversation at the dinner table, I said, “Not since 1989? That was ten years ago!”

You'd think by now, they'd expect this sort of thing from The Blonde Sheep.

*My ONE exception to the Dark Chocolate Rule

Where credit is due

2008-07-07T21:20:00.003-05:00

Now that I've begun my mission to brainwash all of you into the life of a public library rat, I'd like to thank the one who encouraged me to rediscover its shelves of "inked paths/opening into the future" *

As I was reading Mrs. G's comment to that public library post, I suddenly remembered that it was SHE who reminded me of my love of smelling old books. Back when we worked together in the stone showroom in an industry where reading for fun was about as crazy as putting MARBLE instead of granite on your kitchen countertop. (Take my word for it, this is considered damn crazy. And you have to say "damn crazy" as redneck as possible)

So Mrs. G, I thank you from the bottom of my library lovin' heart. I owe you 3/4 of my brain and at least 3 toes. And my first pair of Manolos. (It might be a while)

*You DID look up Linda Pastan's The Bookstall, RIGHT?

Get a library card already

2008-07-01T21:18:00.011-05:00

Most women agree that aside from the Manolos, Fendi bags and Cosmos, they love Sex & The City for its verisimilitude. They will tell you about all of the episodes during which they jumped off the couch, pointed at the screen and screamed, “I said that 3 weeks ago!” I am one of these women.

And I had one of these moments about a month ago during Sex & The City, the movie. Fortunately, I had the sense NOT to jump out of my seat, point, and scream into a theater full of totally pissed off people. Pissed off because, you see, I was possibly the only one in that theater identifying with Carrie Bradshaw at that very moment, not because she said anything about men or relationships or sex or even shoes, but because she, too, loves to go to the public library! To CHECK OUT BOOKS!! She even opens the books to smell the binding. Mmmmm…

Yes, I go to the public library on a regular basis, not to use the Internet or to find some specific information, but because that is truly where I want to go after an afternoon of high end shopping (or more recently, high end browsing). I know, I know. There is nothing exciting about the thought of a silent, musty-smelling library. Believe me, I don’t get excited about actually working in a library. Not when there’s a shaken iced tea lemonade, upbeat music and the smell of new books right around the corner at Barnes & Noble. But to all of the people, including Mr. Big, who wonder why anyone goes to the public library? I’ll tell you why: because as soon as I walk in that door and get my first whiff of books (musty or otherwise), it feels just like childhood summers when my mom would take me to the library, hand me a big empty canvas bag and turn me loose. Oh the euphoria! Shelves and shelves of books I have yet to read. Or yet to read again for the 10th time. In the words of Linda Pastan,* “freshly baked loaves/waiting on their shelves/to be broken open”

For FREE.

So that is why you will find me with my Manolos and Fendi in the musty-smelling library on a sunny afternoon, browsing through ancient Greek epic poetry and early Shakespeare.

Ok, actually, you’ll see me in my BCBG Girls and bebe, swiftly picking out a stack of teen fiction. (Ok, so it’s not so sophisticated. But, I have read a very broad range of teen fiction genres. And only a very SOPHISTICATED teen fiction reader would know about all of these genres.) After I’ve picked out my stack, I pick up some other things too – an old Nancy Drew favorite, a DVD, even a “grown up” book or two.

And then there was the one time I picked up an actual grown up. Yes - a very nice, blond, grown up man.

Now, then. If you haven’t been taking advantage of your local public library, how will you ever be able to read that last paragraph, jump up and scream, “I said that 3 weeks ago!”

*If you are at ALL a lover of books and have not read Linda Pastan’s poem, The Bookstall, then you have not read at all. Go and find it.

WORKOUT OVER

2008-06-28T20:36:00.004-05:00

Yet another addition to bebe Me's catalog of BAD GYM BEHAVIOR (including that of officious trainers, grunters/groaners/weight slammers, blithely naked women, inconsiderate weight lifters and the smelly people).

Pet Peeve #6: irresponsible germ spreaders

Does the elliptical machine LOOK like your bed? Because that's where you should be if you are unable to stop your clamorous coughing and sniveling.

Gross.

God bless 17-year-old stupidity, without which I'd have nothing to write

2008-06-27T14:44:00.011-05:00

A few months ago, inspired by The Bobby Bones Show (aka the only thing that makes me feel better about living in Austin besides an occasional celebrity meeting) and Brad Paisley, I decided that maybe it would be cool to try to write a letter to the 17-year-old bebe Me.

But no sooner had I started with “Dear (bebe Me),” than I was reminded of who I was at 17. I was a smug and supercilious aspiring elitist violinist and I can tell you what I would’ve done with a letter like that. I’d have smirked and thrown that unopened letter in the dumpster where I knew it BELONGED. Because no way in upper middle class, suburban teenage HELL did I need anything to tell ME about MY future.

So I abandoned the letter writing and made a toast instead – to my 17-year-old self. Because for once (and I really mean ONCE), she was right.

And it has nothing to do with the lyrics

2008-06-26T21:45:00.005-05:00

Sit down y’all.

Because I, bebe Me, Princess of Upbeat Feel Good Girl Pop, am genuinely digging a song by- get ready for it- Coldplay. Yes, it is true. I can listen to Viva la Vida all the way through AND more than once. And it does not make me want to curl up in the fetal position and wait for the next terrible thing in my life to happen. In fact, the song actually makes me smile. Even dance. Coldplay!

Either this particular song of theirs is uncharacteristically pop-py or I am becoming more mellow.

Please God let it not be the latter.

Redeeming my frequent cryer miles

2008-06-26T21:19:00.004-05:00

I’m ok with the fact that my first full semester of grad school (last fall) was a bit of a kick in the ass. Because sometimes a kick in the ass is what you need. Like vitamins. And pap smears.

But this past semester was far more than a fortified kick in the ass. It was a hard punch in the gut. The punch happened somewhere near the beginning of the semester and I spent the rest of it trying to crawl forward and get up off the slippery ground. Sometimes I’d get up for a second or two only to be shoved right back down on my still sore ass.

And yes, I know that doing “creative” work is painful. I know that being forced to make something you enjoy into work can wrench your sense of self, stop your breath and threaten to silence your voice. I’ve been there before and I chose to come back. So waking up sick to my stomach and angry because I don’t want to face another day of staring at a blank computer screen with nothing to write is all part of the package. Right along with the panic episodes on the stationary bike, the daily pacing and the tearful meltdowns.

Ideally, the reward for all of this adversity (in addition to giving you artistic strength and breadth of material, blah blah BLAH) comes in the form of newfound wisdom about the greater scheme of life.

So almost 2 months later, I am finally ready to reap the rewards and fill up this blank computer screen with some of that adversity induced wisdom:

Sometimes it just sucks.
And I still look ugly when I cry.

Wait, does this mean that I’m still not up off the ground?

Sex, Drugs and Pagannini

2008-03-20T20:28:00.004-05:00

Last week, it took me ten minutes to tune a violin. Let me put this into perspective. Back in the day, ten minutes was enough time to tune my violin, check it twice, play through all my four octave scales and wonder for the 1015th time why bass players and tuba players can’t ever PLAY IN TUNE. And when I say that it took me ten minutes the other day, I’m not even counting the minute or two it took me to realize that I hadn’t tightened the bow.

Yup. Any day now, they’ll be coming to my door to collect my violin card.

But it’s ok, I’m still card worthy. Because I do still know that when your g-string is too tight, maybe you need some dope.

And if that sentence didn’t make you think about friction and lubrication, well, my friend, that is why you don’t have a violin card.

Now I can die a happy blogger

2008-03-14T14:18:00.010-05:00

Last Saturday, I met a rockstar. And y’all. I totally geeked out. Geeked. Out. I mean, 11-yr-old girl meets Hannah Montana geeked out.

And just in case you don't believe me, let me give you a brief rundown of my shining moment:

I’m pretty sure I called her a ROCKSTAR at least five times, spoke something like 10,000 words a minute (every other one being “inspiration!!” “nervous!” or “excited!!!”), proceeded to share half my life story, and then somehow got a perfect stranger to take our picture. And in the meantime, almost completely ignored her husband and totally forgot to introduce my friend because I just could not get over the fact that I WAS TALKING TO HEATHER B. ARMSTRONG.

But here’s the thing. During this entire effusive spectacle, Heather B. Armstrong never looked at me like I had three heads and a purple eye. Nor did she back away slowly while dialing 9-1-1. Instead, she complimented my rabbit fur-collared coat, sang a little Mormon pop and casually mentioned to me that she was an English major- as if I haven’t, you know, read every single one of the posts on dooce.com and also happen to know all about the Avon World Sales Leader and that a “crayon” is a “crown” and not a “cran.” Because the truth, my friends, is that Heather B. Armstrong, winner of four 2008 Bloggies and the one whose writing lit a fierce fire under my violin-scarred typing fingers, really is just as genuine as her writing is.

I finally know why it was meant for me to leave the birthplace of Neiman Marcus and move to the city that loves to suck all the fun out of good, clean materialism. I used to think that it was so that I could learn how to spend 36 hours writing 3 taglines only to watch my prof. look at them for half a second before crossing them out one by one. But now I know that it was so that I could be in Austin at the Halcyon Coffee Shop on Saturday, March 8th in my rabbit fur-collared coat TO MEET HEATHER B. ARMSTRONG.

And its alternate spelling is g-e-r-m-o-p-h-o-b-i-a

2008-02-29T14:34:00.004-06:00

If you’re going to stand in a public bathroom stall next to that toilet and use a pen tip that will touch the bacteria-ridden wall and will then be used to write on something else that will be passed on and could very well end up in MY hands, then please for the love of God, LEARN HOW TO SPELL.

Seen written on a public bathroom wall near campus:

“All eyes on me and I can’t breath.”

I have TRIED to forget about this because even I know that a misspelled word is not going to end the world, but, you see, to some of us who have inherited spelling nervosa, completely forgetting about it is like trying to forget about a big, itchy baseball-sized mosquito bite on your face. The truth is that I’m just one frightening step away from being a certified spelling vigilante, avenging spelling crimes with my quick drying, fade and water-resistant Sharpie. And it gets worse when I’m stressed out. And I was so stressed out on the day that I witnessed this particular misdemeanor, that I almost reached for the Sharpie.

Thank God that my germaphobia trumps my spelling neuroticism.

Must be at least 6-8 characters in length

2008-02-08T16:28:00.000-06:00

I wish I could say that I started the first semester of this, the best year ever, with my usual brand of perky, annoying optimism. Because I had every intention to do so. But the very second I set Steve Madden-clad foot on campus and got that first familiar whiff of Academia, something happened. I'd barely blinked an eye when that Big Bad Campus proceeded to suck the perky, annoying optimism right out of me and I immediately began to wilt. Which is why I spent my first two weeks of class, dull-eyed and droopy-tailed, sitting through lectures while visions of Dallas fun
danced (to old school Whitney Houston and surrounded by adoring gay men) in my head. Because I wanted to be ANYWHERE but sitting in a perfectly rigid, straight-back chair and staring up at a projection screen with pencil in hand, poised and ready to doodle.

And just like that, my wish was granted. You see, I was damn lucky enough to spend last week lying in my perfectly nonrigid bed, staring at a digital thermometer with Extra Strength Tylenol in hand, poised and ready to drug.

But was I grateful for this little break from PowerPoint and laser pointers? Why, of course not. Because the other symptoms of the flu that they don’t tell you about go something like this:

•Panicking about missing whatever it is that you are missing. Miss CLASS? What if they give out the SECRET PASSWORD? I can't graduate without the SECRET PASSWORD!
•Compulsive urge to call your mom (God bless her) at least once a day just to say, “I think I have Toxic Shock syndrome!" or "I'm TOTALLY going to have to drop out of school." or "Do I need to write up my will right now or can I take a nap first?”

So now that I have put the Extra Strength Tylenol away - right there on the shelf next to the cans of vegetable soup that for some reason, only taste good when the thermometer registers at least 101, I am relieved to go back and sit in those bloody straight-back chairs. Not because I’ve once again been reminded to appreciate routine WITHOUT a fever, chills and delirious phone calls. Not because I’m tired of sleeping for 18 hours a day. But, because damnit y’all - at least I’ll be there when they give out the SECRET PASSWORD.