Flashback to Elementary School

I skinned my knee at school today. Yes, really.

But I should make one thing clear. It was not the fault of my white Steve Madden wedges. Would I have tripped and fallen if I were wearing flats? Probably not. But I NEVER BLAME PRETTY SHOES.

So whose fault is it? It could be my fault. After all, instead of paying attention to where I was stepping as I generally try to do when wearing shoes with height, I was absorbed in the Search for the Car Keys in the Purse. (All women know about this.) While I was searching, the surface on the street suddenly changed from flat concrete to uneven brick. Of course, I wouldn't have been searching for my keys if I'd have found them before I started walking or for that matter, waited to find them after I finished walking. Or I could’ve actually put my keys in the (gasp!) key compartment in my purse in the first place.

Or, I could do the right thing and blame the UNEVEN BRICK. That damn brick tripped me.

It was NOT the shoes.

Precious Moments (of Technology)

If you’re like me, you can remember the day, even the moment you met at least one of your small, personal technological gadgets. You remember what you were doing, where you were, the starry-eyed swooning…

I remember the cold winter evening on which I braved the playground of N. Dallas holiday shoppers and met my beautiful, beautiful white macbook. I remember the bittersweet sendoff party given to me by my soon-to-be former employer at which I met my video iPod, a generous gift of appreciation from those who hired me seven years earlier. I remember each of the moments I met my Nikon Coolpix camera, my current NOKIA phone, and my SONY Handycam (a gift from my new employer – small companies do have their perks).

I also remember the moment I met my very first small, personal technological gadget. It was the weekend of both my birthday and my college graduation. My entire family had flown up to the City of Gloomy Skies, one Rochester, NY, to attend the ceremony for which I’d have just as soon skipped out and ran as fast as I could back to where the sun shines and people didn’t listen to Gustav Mahler for fun. I was relieved to be finished, terrified of the future and overcome with the pang of parting ways with each friend with whom I’d spent the last four grueling years.

My older, more savvy brother who was already working as a Technical Consultant for a Fortune 500 company brought me a graduation gift - a gift for the girl who just spent four years in The Bubble of Future Starving Artists. Yes, the ones who would be proud to move to Manhattan to live in a closet-sized, spartanly furnished studio apartment and eat pasta and tuna while gigging and auditioning for every open position in the world.

So I opened the gift. Which is when I met my 3 com Palm III. I looked at this thing in my palm. This strange, slim, charcoal gray thing. This thing over which my brother (who himself did not even own one yet) and my dad were drooling. I looked up suspiciously and said, “What the hell is this?”

Nine years later, as I sit among these friends of mine: my video iPod that is charging in the side of my beautiful, beautiful white macbook which holds hundreds of pics taken by my Nikon Coolpix and could very well hold clips taken by my SONY Handycam if I’d actually learn how to do it, I think back to that day and can only say, “Who was that girl? How did she - ”

Wait, do I hear my beloved NOKIA phone telling me I’ve gotten a photo text?

Unexpected

Sometimes someone says something so wonderful and nice to you that you cry. Because you believe it. And the tears aren't even embarassing.

To the Library

“Where is the library?”

This was the question from the clueless blonde (me) in class last Thursday upon receiving a list of research sources for our upcoming Media Plan Project.

Most research is done online now (first big change from my undergraduate days), but there are still some print periodicals and such that you can find at an actual book-filled library. And so, as I am still in eager pursuit of the drastic, new adventures in the World of Graduate School, I decided to start there.

Then: My undergrad “campus” was one building in the heart of downtown. I lived in the dorm across the street. The library and bookstore were across the street in the other direction. Basically, I spent my entire life within 2 blocks. I could get anywhere within 3 minutes. (Of course, when it was snowing and below freezing, it felt more like 10.)

Now: My grad campus is almost literally an entire city itself. Every time I go to campus, I take some sort of urban hike (longer if I park, shorter if I take the bus) to get to where I need to go. The main library, I discovered is on the other extreme side of campus from my parking garage and all the other buildings I’ve had to frequent. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind walking and I’d rather schlep around in the heat than the cold, but it’s the time it takes that I can’t get over. 3 minutes? Try 30.

Then: I’ve written about the culture of performance majors at hard core music conservatories before. We used the library for the following reasons: to check out new musical scores to play around with, to check email, to find the friend we’d been looking for and hadn’t found after scouring all 5 floors of practice rooms, but most frequently to hide out in the listening room and listen to recordings (sometimes for a class, but more often for fun.)

Now: People go to the library to study. There were actually people besides Ph.D. students sitting at the tables and carrels! Thank God the people are generally nice here. After all, someone had to show me how to, you know, find a book. And how to use the copy machine.

Then: Staying too long at a university library-with all of the whispering, quiet concentration (HOW can people develop ideas this way?) and the stillness - made me feel mentally claustrophobic. At some point, I’d be completely consumed with one thought: I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!!

Now: Staying too long at a university library-with all of the whispering, quiet concentration (HOW can people develop ideas this way?) and the stillness - makes me feel mentally claustrophobic. At some point, I’m completely consumed with one thought: I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!! I mean for the love of Pete, there’s no teen fiction in this library!

At least one person for the police to interview if I turned up missing in my new city

I may have my first bona fide friend in Austin, TX. I mean, only a friend would call you just to see how things are going at the first-complete-week-of -school milestone, right? Or maybe he just really wants to come over and hang out at the nice pool at my apartment complex. But hey, I’ll take that too!

BeneFitness

There are lots of things that motivate me to get up before the crack of dawn 5 days a week so that I can spend 2 hours burning enough calories to justify last night’s dessert and put away my first 40 oz. of water for the day - like health, empowerment, clarity of mind, and feeling and looking good.

But today, I have found the motivating prize that has nothing to do with how my body feels. Behold the perfect gym: two stories of fitness friendly glory.
•Cardio machines as far as the eye can see – ellipticals, stairmills, treadmills, stationary bikes, recumbent bikes, rowing machines, stairmasters... not to mention the two NEW ones I’ve never tried (my heart was racing and my knees went weak from excitement), those being the woodway treadmill and the arc trainer.
•Cable machines, Smith machines and free weights that are actually returned to their correct place (thanks to the fitness staff who make better use of their time than flirting or soliciting unwanted business).
•Dozens of stability balls, bosu balls, resistance bands, etc., again all in their correct place in an entire section devoted to using such tools.
•Row upon row of strength training circuit machines, organized by body part.
•A spacious stretching area with PLENTY of mats.
•Disinfectant wipes stationed all around the gym.
•Large classrooms and an even larger variety of classes.
•Enough TVs to show major networks, news networks, ESPN, cable and a special channel that corresponds to the music and ads playing over the loud speakers.
•Above mentioned, extensively trained and screened staff members/trainers/nutritionists who are knowledgeable, friendly, always on the floor and who seemingly want nothing in return.
•Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows all around and my already favorite recumbent bike right next to the window that faces the parking lot, which is like another TV screen on an exciting day.
•Fully stocked, fully equipped locker rooms withTV lounging areas.

And those are just the basic amenities. There are also basketball and racquet ball courts, a rock climbing wall, an indoor pool, an outdoor pool and bistro, upscale private pilates and yoga studios. There is a salon and spa and a café which serves fresh, organic food and nutritious snacks and drinks. There is child care, field trips included. Membership advisors have their own little offices (not cubicles) and are not reeking of aggressive ploys to get you to sign up only to ignore you after you’re a member. I would mention the upscale natural stone floors and granite countertops, but since I sold that stuff for years and years, it doesn't impress me much. (But look at me mentioning it anyway)

And the price for a nationwide 24 hour membership? (and no it’s not the 24 hour Fitness chain) So. Reasonable.

Could it be that I’ve paid my dues in years of dealing with flaky trainers and commission driven, false promising sales staff for this? Of playing hunt and find for the free weights and putting up with limited options in disinfecting machines? Of thinking to myself every morning, "If I owned a gym, it would be like this..." (and this new gym is very similar to those thoughts)? Yes I know that heart wellness and disease prevention is what really matters. And of course, with just a pair of shoes and the earth God gave us, it is entirely possible to achieve such things without membership dues, gasoline and mileage. And yes, I am helping to make a man in Minnesota who had an entrepreneurial dream very wealthy. But I say GOOD FOR HIM. I say that there is nothing wrong with enjoying this kind of yuppie luxury right along with the health benefits of working out. I say that as a dedicated, longtime gym rat, I’ve earned it.

FIRSTDAYOFCLASS!! (last Thursday)

And y’all - The sky. Has not. Fallen down.

Nobody asked me what the hell I think I’m doing in graduate school. I found that I had thoughts to contribute in my media management class and nobody treated me like a dumb blonde. It turns out that people still take notes with pen and paper and not some sort of elaborate laptop software - so I’m still cool. Even though I haven’t taken any of my “leveling” courses yet, I didn’t feel like I was the littlest kid on the block, trying to keep up with the cooler, older kids. In fact, it seems that having worked those seven long years at a brand new, very small company where I was actually involved in real life media management (albeit on a very small scale) is paying off so far. Take that, you snooty "leveling" courses.

I like the class, I like the prof., and I really like the other students. In fact, the first person to whom I introduced myself is a totally cool high school basketball coach from DALLAS. And yes, he IS a Mavs fan. My first day of class was really fun!

So I rushed home and finished my homework the very same night!

HA HA HA! Did you believe me? Please. I haven’t changed that much.

Load Out T minus 1 day (and do you like how I throw around that event terminology -“load out”- without even thinking?)

How would you spend your last entire free day in the city you love? For my last “normal” day in Big D before moving to Austin, I’d planned to spend the afternoon running last minute moving errands around the city. I’d pictured driving along the familiar highways in the sunshine, listening to my ipod and soaking up Dallas flavor one more time.

Here’s what really happened:
I took my car in for a routine oil change and mentioned the small issue I’d been having with my starter. One hour later, I’d gotten an oil change, a new battery and the news that my starter needed replacing because it was draining the battery.

“But, but…” I stammered, “I have so much to do this afternoon.” Three minutes later, I was pulling out of the parking lot in a “loaner car” which was really one of the office guys’ personal BMW. (578th reason to wear short skirts and padded bras)

I’d just loaded up my car with 10 bags of material for recycling and one box for Goodwill when the rain started. After I was done at the outdoor recycling center, I was the soaking wet girl in the short skirt and padded bra trying to wipe down the interior of a random stranger’s luxury German car because I hadn’t been able to figure out how to open the trunk and had to stuff everything in the back seat. Upon arrival at Goodwill’s outdoor donation center, once again, I stepped out into the rain and asked the guy if he took old cell phones. His response? “Sure we do, you’re going to get totally wet!” YA THINK?

On the way to my last errand, as I cursed the pouring rain and bumper-to-bumper traffic, it took me twenty ipod-less minutes to realize that I was going East instead of West. I wasn’t actually surprised as this was only one of the many, many incidents resulting from my move-stress induced ditziness. After thirty more rainy, bumper-to-bumper, (and still ipod-less) minutes in the RIGHT direction, just as I reached the exit to my last stop ten minutes before they were going to close, I discovered the exit I needed to take was CLOSED.

So much for my halcyon daydream.

Oh, but there was one bright spot: At 4:50 just after the closed exit disaster, I realized that U-Haul was supposed to call me before 5 pm to confirm the next day’s truck pickup time and I still hadn’t heard from them. Just as I was mentally giving them the bird, my phone rang! And it was U-Haul! Yes, that’s right – my afternoon was made by the company with the big red and white trucks.

All Dallas. All Princess.

People have been asking and wondering how my “All Dallas. All Princess.” birthday/going away/back to school party was this year. Was it anything like the bacchanalia of last year? I must say that the answer is no. I did not dance for 5 hours straight, but I did dance enough to generate the usual comments and looks of disbelief. I didn’t wear a tiara… I alternated between two tiara adorned cowboy hats. The boutique VIP (this year’s host) did not end up wearing the gay man’s tube socks, but she did end up with two hot dates for next month’s Pat Benettar concert. The newspaper was not delivered before the last guest went home. That’s not to say, however, that it wasn’t a WHOLE LOT of rockstar fun.

A fly on the wall that night would have overheard the following:

From the host of the party: No, NO! Ya’ll can NOT do that outside!!! I have neighbors – WITH KIDS!

From the self-described “all things sports ignorant gay man” upon hearing the tail end of a conversation about Carrie Underwood’s recent canoodling with Tony Romo: Oooh, that place serves excellent ribs!!

Said to Yours Truly: What IS it with you and music and dancing?

Said to the expecting couple: What do you mean decide on the paint color of the baby’s room before it’s born? That’s so unfair to the baby, man. Why don’t you let the BABY decide?

I CAN’T BELIEVE YOUR EYES AREN’T TOTALLY RED BY NOW!!

Why are you just standing there staring at Dirk’s crotch?

To another year and new adventures!

All Dallas. All Princess.: Big Dallas Sports (and Big Dirk)

All Dallas. All Princess.: Big Dallas Shopping

All Dallas. All Princess.: The Big D

All Dallas. All Princess.: The Skyline Yours Truly CREATED HERSELF

Yes, I really did painstakingly envision, draw, cut and paste the whole thing by myself. Because I'm not crazy enough already.

All Dallas. All Princess.: Big Dallas Grooming (Got Lipstick?)

All Dallas. All Princess.: The princess part

The place to which vulnerability leads

Last week, I found out that a good friend of mine was viciously attacked last month as he was leaving one of his regular hangouts on what should have been an ordinary weeknight. When I say “good” friend, I mean “good” in every sense of the word. He is good at his work and he is a good athlete. He has a good attitude and personality. He leads every aspect of his life with genuine kindness. It seems that he was a victim of being vulnerable at the wrong place at the right time.

To imagine these people he’d never seen before physically attacking him makes my blood run cold. The fact that the cowardly bastards callously played with the life of MY FRIEND probably because of the color of his skin and his “pretty blond hair” (as catwoman so aptly described) makes me angry - the kind of angry that stays in the pit of your stomach for days.

But I was heartened to hear his usual upbeat voice on the phone, his sense of humor deliciously the same as ever. He still insisted on hearing the details of my life and my thoughts. All of this amidst still being at the mercy of the realities of his injuries. I’m sure that he’s angry too, but he’s not letting it destroy his goodness.

In the hours following, as I contemplated the cruel consequences of vulnerability, I considered something else he and I had discussed - not taking things in life for granted. Things like health. Like being blessed with opportunities and a future. Like being able to remember past experiences, even the painful ones. Like the people - those women and men who have positively affected our health, our pasts and our futures. Like my friend who could have been taken from my life in the blink of an eye. Any one of these people in my life could be taken away tomorrow. We are all vulnerable in this way. So I stopped thinking and started doing – started reaching out more to some of these people. And it made me feel good. Good and a little less angry.

Gem of the Day

This morning on The View, Barbara Walters brought in a Fiddler's Elbow towel that her daughter gave her for Mother's Day. Right beside the lovely art deco bride, it reads: Why Do I Have To Get Married? I Didn't Do Anything Wrong.

Why didn't I come up with that first?

Trading Down and Trading Up

I’ve been spoiled, living the last 6 years in my spacious 2-story apartment with an attached garage and curbside trash pick up.

Alas, my new digs will not have the luxuries of the garage or curbside pick up. Sigh. But it’s not bad. Same property owners (same tolerable management) and similar 2-story layout (albeit about a third smaller). There are even some improvements: it’s a brand new property and has a surprisingly spacious kitchen.

But maybe the best trade up is the color palette of the exterior. Not long after I moved into my current complex, management decided to give the exterior a fresh, new look. This new look turned out to be covering the massive group of 3 story buildings with a fresh shade of baby-shit brown. Did I mention that our buildings are built on the slant of a hill? Oh, how I've enjoyed coming home to what resembles a big pile of - well, you know. And ok, they did break it up with yellow (I’m pretty sure they thought it was cream) trim and black doors. Because of course they didn't want to include any colors which would fight with the BABY-SHIT BROWN.

So you can imagine my excitement to move to the new place which boasts a paint shade which I can only describe as green with an identity crisis - is it khaki green? army green? olive green? A mistake? (The fact that it is decidedly photo-shopped down to more of a neutral khaki in all of their promotional material makes me wonder.) So this whatever-the-hell-green is coupled with large sections of that hideous multi-colored river rock that Texans seem to love so much and topped off with cream trim and “Hey, let’s throw in just one more clashing color” kelly green window shutters and doors. That’s right, I consider it to be a trade UP.

That is how much I hate baby-shit brown.

One More for the Fire

I need to add to my list of gym enigmas: the smelly people.

Admittedly, none of us smell like roses at the gym – we are there to sweat after all. But if you notice that the people on the machines around you are suddenly stopping their workout, burying their noses in their towels and moving across the room, maybe you should change your socks, take a shower, and wear deodorant. And for the LOVE OF PETE, SMELL YOURSELF!!!

I think I heard my skin crawling this morning

Why is it that in those first moments of early morning wake, my ideas are never quite as brilliant and fresh as I think they are at the time? It is usually during my workout an hour or so later, when the glaring stupidity of those very ideas comes into focus, suddenly making me cringe and wonder what the hell I was thinking.

A couple of weeks ago for example, I came up with a totally kick-ass theme for my birthday party and had worked out a plethora of ideas for the décor and the invitation…all before getting out of bed. Needless to say, that particular theme (and the cockamamie ideas that went with it) was immediately nixed on the elliptical trainer later that morning.

This morning? I switched on the radio when I first woke up and the first thing I heard was the news of Paris Hilton’s imminent prison term starting on June 5th. June 5th? I perked up as this is a date I’ve been thinking of a lot recently - it being none other than THE FIRST DAY OF CLASS. And then I hear that Paris will be in there for 45 days. 45 days? That’s about 6 weeks…which is the length of the first summer term.

OMG, I thought in a moment of girls-subjected-to-captivity solidarity, if Paris can get through it, SO CAN I!

Then at the gym: Wait a minute. Solidarity? With Paris Hil-

Which is when the skin began its crawl.

WHO HAS HEART???

ROWDY.

PROUD.

LOUD!!

Shame, shame, shame on the fans who lost heart and left early last night.

Mistlav Rostropovich

A pillar of the classical music scene, this talented and legendary cellist died last week. I was saddened to hear of his death, but also distinctly inspired by his fierce dedication to defending artistic freedom – a concept that I have often taken for granted. This is a man who was exiled from his country, where the expression of art and music was tightly controlled by the Soviet rule, because he dared to stand up for principles about which I’ve never had to worry.

I’ve been known to say a few disparaging remarks about the elitism and single-mindedness that exists in the classical music scene, but I also recognize that I chose to be a part of it and having that choice was a blessing. As a teenager, I found my voice and my dreams in the artistic community – one that encourages individualism and uninhibited expression. I learned the courage to form and trust my own ideas, I learned how to find joy in hard work and competition and I learned the heartache of rejection in an environment that felt familiar and right to me at the time.

And when I discovered that my personality and desires were no longer in synch with the opportunities available to me in that particular scene, I had the freedom to leave. True, one reason I left was because I felt stifled – but I felt stifled by the culture of the industry and the attitudes and expectations held by many (not all) of the people in that culture. Not because I didn’t have the freedom to pursue my aspirations where I wanted and how I wanted. Not because I couldn’t explore the works and subject matter I wanted without restriction. Not because I or any of my peers was creatively confined in anyway. I chose to leave for the exact same reasons that I chose to be in it: for my own edification and a desire to be true to myself.

In the words of Mistlav Rostropovich himself from a speech given on May 26, 1992:

But what is freedom? A lot of people have asked this and often with the intention of destroying it. I shall tell you what it is, it is something that the birds possess. A bird may land on whatever branch of whatever tree without permission or passport. No-one will tell it that that tree is not his and that he can only sing in another tree. Liberty consists of each person finding his own place among the people and doing good.

giving my heart again

Beautiful Gift

I am lucky. Last year, during my darkest moments (read about it here), a wonderful gift serendipitously fell into my lap.*

“Gift” is really the only word to accurately describe my experience working at Event Management Company X. **

I am grateful for the opportunity I had to explore event management, something I’d wanted to do for several years. I am grateful that I was able to work my much blogged about Bermuda event (here and here.) But most of all, I am grateful for the people. They took a chance on a girl with no previous experience, they hired me even though I planned to go to graduate school soon and they accepted me with open arms into their professional family. They were patient and generous with their knowledge. Even more notably, they were fun to work with and TOTALLY appreciative of my clothing choices.

I would like to thank them all. Them being:


•The Glamorously Tall One – She who is not only the owner and founder of the company but is also on my Top 10 Women List because her courageous vision, optimistic energy and uncompromising principles have inspired me from the moment we met. Although she might never publicly admit it, I believe that it is the courage of her convictions that sustains the strength of the staff and drives the success of the company. She also has a special talent for making and keeping friends, is a champion hula-hooper and throws one hell of a fun holiday party. To work for someone like this, I maintain, is not an ordinary thing.
•The Token Maleness – God bless his long- suffering. Somehow, he gets through each day amidst a handful of women who shamelessly primp, gossip and generally act like girly girls. And yet he has never thrown up nor has he ever made up for it by belching, spitting or engaging in other “gross man” behavior. And he can manipulate a database with his eyes closed, sort spreadsheet data 10 different ways in less time than it takes most of us to open the spreadsheet, and sweet talk the crankiest client/vendor into a thankful toady. During his off hours, he makes a mean cocktail, drives a kick ass car and defies the social structure of the small town he calls home. (He also proposes to anyone who brings him Starbucks in the morning.)
•She of the Cool Hats - The one who has kept me laughing since the day she bestowed upon me the beloved sobriquet, “Stupid New Girl” - the master of imitations, voices, funny faces, hyperbolic stories, and “squirreling.” She knew the answer to every one of my rookie questions, refused to be intimidated and could lash the most remiss of vendors into action. But as equally as she is no-nonsense, she is also compassionate. She has a heart of gold and is an exceptional family member and friend – even to me despite my need for privacy regarding certain subjects. Truly, a GOLDEN star.
•The Girl with the Platinum Locks (the one shade of blond which I covet, yet could never get away with) – She makes handling hundreds of tradeshows look like nothing – always unruffled despite multiple deadlines and looooong conference calls with her “favorite” people. The QUEEN of brilliant email discussions like this and always in on the latest celebrity gossip, she had an impeccable sense of when we needed a little levity whether it be an email, a snack break or a FLYING MONKEY.) She once drove 25 minutes in the opposite direction of her home just to take me home when I twisted my ankle at work and couldn't drive. And how can I not love someone who loves the shopping as much as I do?
•Supergirl – Seriously. It isn’t without reason that everyone has learned to trust what she knows and what she says…from hooking up a scanner to picking out classy gifts to finding (on-line) the name of the cute doctor at the hospital. She threw me countless lifelines from day one including an orientation of the office building (like how to find the third elevator in the small, hidden dark corner of the lobby that you must find in order to get to the mailboxes and deli), the explanation of industry buzzwords, standing next to me to help me fax 50 pages through the fax machine that hates me (I’m not kidding – the machine knows me and actually despises me), and most unforgettably, pushing me in a rolling desk chair down the hall and to the restroom when I twisted my ankle. She’s exceptional at her work and exceptional at her life outside of work. And that girl can DANCE. To quote a client, she is “clearly a legend.”
•She Who Left Big Shoes to Fill – Fortunately, she stayed for a while to hold my hand before she moved on. She was there when I had my first-event breakdown and when I answered my first official phone call. She listened to me talk all day and shed consistently intelligent and extraordinary insight. Best of all, she gave me much needed daily shots of confidence during the grad school application stress. The short time we worked together made a significant impression on me and I still miss her humor, her genuine kindness and, of course, her love of all desserts!

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you and Thank you for this precious gift. The gift that won’t ever get lost, collect dust on the bottom shelf, expire or cause unwanted weight gain. I can't ask for much more.


*Ok, so it didn’t just fall into my lap…it did take diligent networking, but networking involves timing and luck. And luck feels like a gift.
**Not the real name, the real name being much more clever.

SAHMs, SILs and SUVs

Not working for the past 2 weeks has thrown me into the exotic and unfamiliar territory of the SAHMs: more commonly known to most as Stay At Home Moms and to yet others as Shit Ass Ho Motherfuckers (if you are not one of these others, you are missing out on the fabulousness of dooce). It’s true that I grew up under the care of a champion SAHM, but when I look around me at these SAHMs who are MY age, I find myself overcome with curiosity. Who are these women with their SUVs and mini-vans, double strollers and mommy bags? Who are these women who have free reign of the stores, gyms and Kwik Kars while the masses are at their office cubicles?

I may have found some answers during a 5-day stay in the Bay Area last week where I spent many hours with my sister-in-law (SIL), a competent SAHM with 3 kids under the age of 5. In short, by 12:00 pm on the day I spent alone with my SIL and 3 kids, I’d taken care of myself. SIL had taken care of herself, 3 kids, one husband, one houseguest and the carpet shampooing. She'd also walked 4 miles (she pushed a double stroller while I walked along side, empty-handed), answered a million "But Mommy..." questions, broken up several fights and gone to the school and the store.

Possibly, I’m cool enough to be a Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker. But without a doubt, as I learned last week, I am definitely not cool enough to be a Stay At Home Mom. I'm not saying that I want to be one. Nor am I saying in any way that the daily grind of my life is any easier than their's. But I will say that I absolutely believe that these women have fully earned their few hours a day to freely reign the stores, gyms and Kwik Kars.

Another Reason to Love my Sister-in-Law

SIL: Apparently, before I married your brother, he would get his way with girls by using the big puppy dog eyes expression.


bebe Me: I know EXACTLY what expression you're talking about. The big, sad, brown eyes.

SIL nods.
Slight pause in conversation.


bebe Me: I can't STAND that expression. Gets on my LAST nerve.


SIL: (snickering) Doesn't do a THING for me. It just makes me do exactly the opposite of what he wants.

More snickering and eye rolling.

Four Words and One Contraction

“You’ve got your spunk back!”

Sweet music to my ears.

I saw my former boss this week. The last time he spent significant time with me was almost a year ago when I slogged through each soul-sucking day behind a big ol’ fake smile – a far cry from the plucky, genuinely enthusiastic being that he once knew.

His simple observation makes me think that just maybe I’m headed in the right direction again.

A Night to Vaguely Remember

I recently finished yet another work of teen fiction (my favorite genre). The plot of this particular story revolved around, of course, the PROM. And I had to wonder: are there really people who actually remember every detail of their prom night?

This is what I remember about my prom night: I had a really good time.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course I remember what I wore and who my date was. I know I went with about 20 people (I saved a few photos), but I can’t remember at whose house we took those photos. I’m pretty sure I remember the downtown venue at which the actual dance occurred. But I don’t remember anything about how we got there, the moment we got there, who we saw there or really much at all about what happened there. I know I went to an after party of some sort, but I don’t know where it was or what I did. Clearly, it was not a monumentally significant event for me... then or now.

But I know I had a really good time.

She-mail

Sometimes you get the chance to work with crazy- talented, celebrity-gossip lovin’, chocolate-craving co-workers who know how to think, work, play hard and carry on brilliant email discussions. Yesterday was a good email discussion day. The longer one involved both on-site and off-site participants and is too lengthy and replete with inside jokes to share (oh, but it was one of the best). However, this little gem fortuitously occurred right as my mid-afternoon eye-glazing started:

Hotness alert!!! Jude Law is going to be in town for some art gallery opening at the Kristy Stubbs gallery tomorrow

I may have to camp out there. However, while he is brutally hot, he is quite awkward and very European. I watched his interview on Good Morning America and was a bit creeped out by him. He seemed slimy. Hot, but slimy.

Hot and slimy. That sounds like the Noodle Bowl we get at Royal Thai.

Just one little slice of my Panic Pie

I was a junior in high school the last time I actually seriously wrote an academic research paper.

The next year, I was consumed with college auditions, applications and graduation recitals. So I coasted through my senior year of AP English by writing my research paper on Debussy so that all of my research sources were in my family’s "library" at home, peppering it with esoteric classical music terminology in hopes of impressing and/or intimidating my way to a decent grade – an easy maneuver to accomplish since that particular teacher was distracted by all the girls in my class who actually bought into the rumors of his willingness to take on under-aged paramours and if not that, then his willingness to give “A”s to the best flirters. I got an “A.” (Believe me, there was no flirting with 40+ men in my under-aged social repertoire so either he was duly impressed or I can thank the flirting, under-aged girls.)

At my prestigious music conservatory, it was generally accepted that good, well-prepared, spell-checked papers would be turned in by music education majors, composition majors, a handful of double-majors and an even smaller handful of performance majors who were wise enough to see beyond the next 4 years. The rest of us performance majors would throw excellent ideas onto paper in haphazard form and print it out 10 minutes before class without spell-checking or any kind of proofing for that matter – all in the name of practice. We had to PRACTICE! How could we spare any extra time to acknowledge that there could be other skills that might prove useful for the future? Other subject matters to explore more deeply so that we could eventually mature into insightful, well-versed musicians and members of society? God bless the long-suffering professors at music conservatories everywhere who have to teach performance majors. They don’t deserve that.

I, on the other hand, fully deserve the panic I’m feeling about entering graduate school with my previous research writing experience having been from the era of actual card catalogs and golf pencils without erasers.

Girly Girl Time

EYELETTING!! Who knew I could love this crafty-country associated fabric so much? It makes a sweet, sexy little corset. And with the addition of some unexpected detail (bows, lace, satin), it makes a decidedly NON-crafty-country, chic summer top in a fresh color (pink, yellow, deep sky blue).

Yup, it’s bebe Spring Collection time again. Other spring trends at the store:

•Maybe just a little less bling on the clothing (sigh), but LOTS of girly satin bows (yum)
•Don’t stop the lunges and squats because there are still lots of leg-baring short shorts in satin, linen, wool, etc.. They are also showing up as fresh, modern one-piece jumpers (shorts instead of the skirt).
•Short skirts and LOTS of short, flirty dresses - some of them will remind you of when you were a little girl
•Glamorous, luxurious satin EVERYTHING
•Patent leather belts, shoes and handbags – I love this!!
•Still lots of wide or thin waist-belts and peep-toes and wedges
•Big ol’ cocktail rings (I got 2) and shiny metallic bracelets


Bebe managers ROCK.

The world has not come to an end!

This is what I always realize after doing or saying something that affirms my intentions to commit.

This past weekend, in the company of a few friends, a few acquaintances and several strangers, I finally worked up the nerve to utter the phrase, “I’m moving to Austin.” Two days later, the sun still rises and sets, I still need to buy Woolite Dark, 635 westbound is still congested at I-35 in the morning, Kroger still accepts my Shoppers Plus card, and it seems that there are no invisible ropes tying me down behind the invisible bars in the invisible 4-sided box of commitment…yet…. And I even managed to establish 2 new social contacts in Austin.

Now I’m wishin’ that I didn’t wear these shoes…

At about the stroke of 1 is when your 4-inch, kick-ass, black patent peep-toe stilettos will tell your thighs, knees and ankles that they are done supporting your gettin’ down real low.

Ouch. And you still have to walk off the dance floor and out of the club. Thank God for $8 valet parking.

The Tragedy (and travesty) of PCD

I have been a loyal fan of the Pussy Cat Dolls. They brought a fresh, vampish twist to my beloved girl pop genre. I purchased, listened to and blogged about their entire CD. When they opened for Christina Aguilera, I was just as excited to see them as I was to see her and I sang every lyric along with them. I love the songs and I love the choreography. Nicole is a great singer and a fantastic performer.

The Tragedy: Nicole is leaving the group.

So what does the rest of the group do? They’re not ready to stop. I respect that - I wouldn’t either. I truly believe that they deserve the same credit that Nicole does in the success of PCD. After all, Pussy Cat Doll just wouldn’t be the same. They are great dancers so they should keep dancing and performing.

Entering Dangerous Territory: But they don’t want to just keep dancing and performing – they want to simply replace the missing member and carry on. Which would probably work if they were still a burlesque troupe. But they are NOT still a burlesque troupe. They have crossed the line to become a pop group.

The Travesty: They are doing all of this on a REALITY TV SHOW.

I just can't do it. I am, officially, no longer a fan.

Ma'am - I - am

Yes, ma’am.

An insulting insinuation of a woman’s age or an expression of respect used to address any female over the age of 2?

The answer, it seems, depends on where you call home. My first encounter of the first meaning was in college when after a brief conversation with a cashier, my Bostonian friend said with a look of sheer horror, “Did she just call me ma’am?” I soon learned that not only can calling someone “ma’am” be insulting, but calling someone “sir” can sarcastic.

In Texas, we learn to say “please,” “thank you,” “ma’am,” and “sir.” We use this terminology freely around friends, family, and strangers. We use it whether we are talking to people older than we are, to people who are the same age that we are and to people who are younger than we are. And to me, it makes perfect sense that we use the term “ma’am” to get someone’s attention. “Hey!” sounds rude and abrupt. So does “Miss” and “hey lady!” “Excuse me” is too impersonal. Down here, we don’t like to sound rude, abrupt or impersonal. Until they deserve it that is.

So imagine my shock today to read an article in which the author (clearly not from Texas) actually spent $3000 on various dermatologic facial procedures all because she started hearing too many people call her “ma’am!!!”

Here’s what bebe Me has to say to her: Yes, ma’am, all the dermatologists and plastic surgeons in Texas and the deep south would looove you.

Outer Power

I discovered the power of fashion in my life at an early age - the power it has to propel me through gloom, to amplify celebration, to inspire me through creative blocks and to simply bring pleasure to my life every day.

I often hear comments that imply that interest in fashion is some sort of obligation, a rite of passage or even simply a means to a goal. “Oh, yes, I used to keep up with that stuff when I was at that age when it was the thing to do.” Sometimes it is followed by: “…back before I got married. Now I don’t need to impress anybody.” And then there are the implications that paying attention to clothing, hair and make-up is vain, shallow, snooty, only for the wealthy and is surely an indication of insecurity.

I find this perplexing, because for me, fashion is just not any of those things (well, it is a little vain.) Fahion is art. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always dedicated a corner of my thoughts at all times to picturing the pieces of my wardrobe and mentally sorting through all the different combinations of tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, jewelry, purses and belts. Not really because I was trying to maximize my wardrobe, but because it’s a creative outlet. It’s color , lines and texture. It’s mixing things up and keeping things fresh. I do the same with make-up and I do the same with hair.

What is the power in the process of choosing what to wear, which make-up to use and how to style my hair? It gives me something to look forward to every single day when I’m sad. It makes an already special event even more special. When I feel an ebb of creative thoughts, it reassures me that the juices are still flowing somewhere in me. It brings out a strongly opinionated side of my generally open-minded nature as I most recently experienced while watching the 2007 Oscar’s Fashion Police show on E! this year, sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing with the fashion experts and other times jumping up and yelling at the screen about how WRONG these same “experts” were.

This is not a power that comes and goes depending on where I am in life. Sure, the details may change with trends, age and yes, personal budget. But the fulfillment remains the same. For that, I am grateful.

March 6, 2007

What a coincidence that the quote in my day planner is:

The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time. –Abraham Lincoln

Yesterday, I made a monumental decision regarding my future – choosing between two fantastic graduate programs to attend. Unfortunately, I had less than a week to decide, the last few days being a blur of visiting the schools, talking to as many people as possible and changing my mind every hour, depending on what I was looking at or who I was talking to. My brain hurts.

You would think that a decision would bring some sort of relief, maybe some excitement. But it didn’t. I’m just exhausted and plagued with uncertainty and nagging reminders of what I might be giving up by choosing A instead of B. I know I would’ve regretted not choosing A, but truthfully, I have plenty of regrets over not choosing B. Having two equally good options truly is that cliché, a blessing and a curse. Why then, being the eternal optimist, am I only feeling the curse?

Maybe because the uncertainty of picking one program over another isn’t what’s bothering me the most. Perhaps I hoped that making the decision would somehow eradicate the rest of my original misgivings about going to school in the first place. They are still there.

I haven’t been telling anyone about my decision because I’m just not ready for the responses. "Aren’t you excited?" "Isn’t it great?" "You’ll love it!" "You’re so lucky…I wish I could go back to school." "When are you moving?" And I’m too exhausted to fake it. Because the truth is, I’m not excited right now. So how can it be great? I'm not completely sure that I'll love it. I’m aware of my fortunate circumstances so I feel guilty for not feeling lucky and for not being one of those people who LOVES school. I’m just not one of those people. And even though I put in a lot of time and soul-searching to come to terms with the fact that going back to school is what I want to do, there are still plenty of things about it that I’m not looking forward to. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go. In fact, as much as I’m enjoying my work as an Event Coordinator, it seems more clear every day that I’ve made the right choice. What I’m saying is that I’m not as enthusiastic as I think someone should be after making that right choice.

So I’m grasping for something to pull me out of this funk so that I can celebrate my own excitement and not everyone else’s. I’ll start with the words of Abraham Lincoln. One day at a time.

You Know You Work In Texas when...

you hear the Senior Account Manager in the office next to you on the phone saying, "Oh bless your heart, it's co cold out there. Did you have to go out back and poke holes in the ice so your cattle could drink?"

All in a (14) Day's Work

As I stumbled out of the cab in front of our hotel on the highest point of Bermuda, gasping for fresh air and trying (unsuccessfully) to ignore the queasiness in my stomach from the 25 minute taxi ride along the island’s serpentine road, I was met by what appeared to be a seven foot giant* wearing a suit coat, tie and Bermuda shorts (some sort of island mirage?) and offering me Bermuda’s national cocktail...oh, that dangerously smooth and delicious Dark & Stormy. My single-minded response? "Please, PLEASE, where is the ladies' room?" Clearly, my first hour in Bermuda was anything but indicative of what turned out to be a red-letter two weeks and perhaps, one answer to my previously blogged New Year’s Plea.


How does two weeks of working my arse off to help coordinate a sales training event, where 14 hour days are still too short to finish our work, manage to unravel 10 months worth of the stress-induced tightly wound knots I'd tied myself into? By providing that first illuminating moment we all wait for after a drastic career change: the moment when something clicks and all the pieces (the cryptic jargon, mysterious tasks and puzzling co-worker comments) start to fall into place and the big picture finally starts to make sense. The fact that it happened on the most alluringly beautiful island in the world just makes it sweeter. And the indulgently, fluffy frosting on the cupcake? Our client was a well-known, MALE-DOMINATED software company, famous for their fun-loving sales force. Being showered with attention from a lot of men at the same time who are not only fun, but also smart and interesting to talk to was like I said, the indulgently fluffy frosting... (enough for an entire blog post--see post below entitled "Candy for My Feminine Senses")

More highlights from the event :

•Going to the local market with my co-worker to buy client gifts and filling our cart with 20+ bottles of Gosling’s Black Rum, eliciting more than a few incredulous stares from local residents
•The flavors of Bermuda: fish chowder, fresh rock fish, violet candy, Bermuda rum cake, Dark and Stormies** and Rum Swizzles
•Spending more time ironing (thank you logo table cloths and event shirts) than I’ve spent ironing everything else combined in my entire life while warding off the obvious, not-so-funny Stepford Wife jokes
•Feeling like kids on Christmas morning when our missing Fed-ex box from Dallas finally arrived 4 days late (complete with screaming, jumping up and down and tearing open the box)
•The delicious, full chocolate, avant-garde chocolate sculpture (gift from the hotel pastry chef)
•Turquoise (count the gradations) water, white/coral sand, tourists on scooters, pastel colored houses behind moon gates (see photo below), and the truly genuine nature of Bermudian natives and residents

So on that last morning, as we pulled out of the hotel drive in the taxi to the airport, my stomach felt fine but my heart was aching. I already missed the island, permanently etched in my memory as the place I was when what should have been soul-sucking labor, instead turned out to be the invigorating gust of epiphany and motivation that I needed to just let go. The Magic of Paradise? I believe!

*The seven foot giant turned out to be our one and only Director of Conference Services, the gallant leader of our hotel staff, all of whom sport suit jackets, dress shirts and ties with Bermuda shorts, which is indeed a Bermudian custom and looks perfectly normal by the time you leave the island.

**Barrit's Ginger Beer and Gosling's Black Rum

Candy for My Feminine Senses

I’m not going to lie. One of the highlights of the Bermuda event was that I was a female Event Coordinator after 2 months of long hours in a female-dominated industry, amidst hundreds of male software sales reps from a male-dominated industry who spent 10 days of intense training with each other.

Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?


•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)

And the sweet red cherry on top?

A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:

“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”

Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.

** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.

Aaaaah, Bermuda......

Wild Chickens run around like squirrels

Damn Lucky Cows

The popular moon gate

Ok, I admit that I don't remember exactly where this is... somewhere in Bermuda

Bacardi Rum Factory

View from the staff meal room on-site

View from my desk on-site

Shots from Harbour Boat Cruise (next 5 shots)

Cart full of Gosling's Black Rum (How to be the center of attention at the local market)

Downtown Bermuda at Night

What's my Bermuda pressure, please?

Just one week ago, I sat in the office in Dallas, blood pressure rising and buried in pre-event stress, wondering what was wrong with me: I was about to spend 2 weeks in Bermuda, but not only was I feeling dread, but I found myself actually looking forward to the LAST day of the trip (read: last day of what my sources say is a most exraordinarily logistically complicated event). But somehow, sitting at a temporary desk, doing the EXACT same work, but being able to turn my head and see palm trees and the ocean seems to have lowered my blood pressure. I don't know if it really did, but I DO know that last day is coming up entirely too soon! More posts to follow...

New Year's Plea

How the hell did I survive 2006? A dramatic question, I know. And certainly, in my case, a question fraught with upper middle -class angst. But it feels like any old angst to me. Last year started so auspiciously for me as I charged forward into all kinds of uncharted territory. But at the first taste of the heady exhilaration that only risk-taking brings, God looked down at my insufferably optimistc ways and thought, "Let's stir it up a little and see what she's REALLY made of." A little hope here, a little disillusionment there, toss in some happiness, uncertainty, heartache and opportunity for courage - whatever it takes for a complete and categorically gut-wrenching self-evaluation.

Did it work? Well, 2 weeks before the end of 2006, I found myself, the girl who swore off academia for good on the day she graduated with her first degree, having broken into a new industry (a feat which I'd begun to believe was impossible) standing in line at the post office and holding... (gasp!) an actual graduate school application. MY graduate school application. And I was actually not close to tears. There may even have been some smiling.

Ok, so I've discovered a little more about myself. Please give me a less emotionally tumultuous 2007. Please, please, please.

Gym Enigmas

The biggest mystery at the gym to me is, suprisingly, none of the following:

• The officious trainer ( If I want an appointment, I will make one with my own trainer who, clearly, is not you. Furthermore, I do not think that you are God's Gift to Women merely because you are a personal trainer)
  
• The Grunter/Groaner/Weight Slammer (Need I say more?)
  
• The blithely naked women in the locker room, sitting on the benches and bending over when you least expect it
  
• Inconsiderate weight lifters who leave 300 lbs worth of free weights on the machine and walk away after their sets, leaving me to choose between attempting to take the weights off myself (ha ha) or asking the officious trainer for help

While I may spend the rest of my life struggling to understand the reasoning behind such behavior, the most inexplicable mystery of all and one that I've only encountered at my new gym is:

The weigh scale in the middle of the gym floor. What's the big deal, you ask? For one thing, it's not in a discreet spot near the trainers' desks for use in fitness tests as you would expect. It is truly at the center, in full view of anyone on their way to the weights, the stairs up to the cardio machines, the courts or the locker rooms. But even more noteworthy is the absence of a scale in the ladies' locker room. I mean, really? Weigh myself in front of the entire membership of the gym? I'd rather be pestered by 100 trainers at once while trying to lift a couple of 150 lb. free weights that the 2 Grunter/Groaner/Weight Slammers left on the Smith machine, during which the fire alarm goes off and all the naked people are forced to run out, sans towels.

Give a girl what she asks for

Seven months ago, plagued with professional ennui, I yearned for SOMETHING mentally stimulating. SOMETHING, ANYTHING!

Anything? How about this? A brand new job in a totally new industry a week and a half before their biggest, most significant and most crucial event of the year, studying for the GRE (um, Math? You mean that stuff I did in high school?) which I will take exactly a week after said event and completing an application for school (letters of rec., essay, transcripts) all before the holidays. Not to mention calming myself down when I start to hyperventilate.

I guess that's SOMETHING.

What do I think I'm doing writing this blog? That was two minutes of stimulation lost! Pardon me, but I have a date with the vocabulary flash cards.

All Resignations are NOT Equal

Turning in a job resignation last week after 7 years at a very small company was more than a little distressing. As expected, even though it was quite emotional, my bosses were encouraging and completely supportive of my forthcoming professional and educational pursuits.

What I was certainly not anticipating, however, was what happened next. I'd just let out a great sigh of relief, thinking that the worst was over. But, of course it wasn't. I still can't figure out how the conversation turned from a discussion of my future to a discussion among my direct boss and upper management centered around sorting out my dating history in the last 7 years. As I listened, face burning red and slipping further and further down in my chair, I heard some of the following:

"But wait a minute. What happened to_________?"
"Oh c'mon. ______ was ages ago. There were at least 2 others since then."
"But wasn't ______ at the holiday party at The Four Seasons?"
"No, that was the year before."

And my favorite:
"So wait. Who is the current ex?"
Yes, that's right. He said "current ex."

How did this happen? I've tried so hard to be tight-lipped about such things. Will this be part of my legacy at that place? "Oh, her? Yeah, she was an exceptional worker with great skills and a lot of dates. "

Sigh. The curse of a small company.

80's much?

As I gave my reflection in the full-length mirror my daily morning once-over (yes, all girls do this and if they don't they SHOULD), I remembered my vehement assertion from a time not so long ago that I would NEVER wear anything even slightly reminiscent of the 80's. Shrudder. What was I wearing this morning? Honest to God leggings with my pointy-toed shoes, a short skirt and cowl-neck sweater with a wide belt worn high around my waist. My hair was feathered back, showing off my hoop earrings and two large bangles adorned my wrist.

I would conclude this post with "never say never," only I don't actually agree with that particular aphorism. Not only would it be expressively stifling to entirely eliminate the word "never," but I would miss the moments like I had this morning too much.

HOOK 'EM!!!!!!!

The Dish on Tapas

I've never tasted Tapas in Spain, nor do I consider myself an undisputed expert on Spanish food, but I have not found any Tapas eateries that even come close to Cafe Madrid on Travis Street. Honestly, I'd like to find another one, just for variety. My most recent effort was dinner at Rouge. While the service was excellent, the food left a lot to be desired.

But it did get me thinking that my first taste of Tapas, years ago, was at Cafe Madrid. What if it had been at one of these other places? It would be entirely possible that I would be missing out on an entire culinary "genre" as well as the irresistable opportunities to tell people that I frequent Tapas Bars. (Said quickly enough, most people will hear something else.)

Fortunately for me, the Tapas Gods were watching over me.

The Last Kiss

This weekend, I saw the new Zach Braff movie, The Last Kiss. I think it was good. I say that because the complexities of the plot rang so true, that for 2 uninterrupted hours, I felt the entire span of harrowing emotions that arise from relationship struggles. It successfully reinforced every commitment-phobic and relationship-phobic instinct in me. In fact, I felt so devastated when I came out of the film, that I knew immediately that I don't EVER want to see it again. Or think too much about it.

I just can't figure out if that makes it a good movie or a bad movie..

Oh. um.. I meant congratulations!

Apparently, it's not only on TV that your first reaction to someone's happy announcement is to laugh until you realize that he/she is serious..

You catch more flies with honey and other secret weapons

Flies do not like vinegar. Also, belligerence is not the same thing as proaction. Tell that to the girl at the back of the line to claim the baggage that did NOT arrive with our flights, after a long day of cancelled flights, stand-by boarding passes and delayed take-offs and landings. She, thanks to her grating, LOUD bitching (which could probably be heard from wherever our baggage was) successfully goaded the airline representative who was at the moment, very professionally helping me with my baggage, into a full-scale altercation in which Loud Girl gets so red-faced and frenzied, that she turns to all of us (who just want to get our bags delivered) and says, "WHO HERE HAS BEEN DEALING WITH THIS INCOMPETENCE ALL DAY??" And what? She wants us to all raise our hands and spend more valuable time participating in some kind of demonstration against an employee who had nothing to do with the maintenance issues of the airplane in another city which started the whole chain of events? When the airline representative finally chooses to ignore Loud Girl and can return to assisting me (exhausted and frustrated, but patient and cooperative), guess who gets a rush put on her baggage delivery? Not Loud Girl, I'll tell you that. It didn't help that all afternoon, I had to listen to Loud Girl complain to everyone who would listen as well as to her husband on her 2 way radio.

Other often underestimated social tools in a frustrating situation:

Silence works a million times more effectively than words. Ranting vs. closed lips and meaningful one-eyebrow raise...

Speaking with a low volume, yet powerful voice gets results faster than strident yelling.

Of course, as soon as all parties are removed from the frustrating situation, all parties are encouraged to go to a really noisy (so you can scream as loud as possible) bar with friends for unrestrained bitching.

Autumn Style Visions

This summer, I may be in the minority to admit that I'd rather survive triple degree summers than sub-zero winters. But even I'm excited about the fall fashion... Highlights from the bebe Autumn 2006 Collection Premier:

• Lots of red (clothing and accessories)
• Leggings paired with mini-skirts and tunics (these do NOT include big, baggy cotton tees..yes, we all remember that particular 80s faux pas..shrudder)
• Dark, simple denim, narrow cut
• High waisted skirts and/or wide belts to be worn around the true waist
• Platform style stacked heels (I don't know if I even worded that right..I never said I write for Vogue)

Lots of love, thanks and congrats to my friends at bebe!

Love/Hate to Love/Love in a New York Minute

The first time I went to NYC, I was an upper middle class, suburban-grown teenager with the idealistic visions of every aspiring, classically trained violinist's Mecca. I expected that as soon as I stepped out onto the streets of New York, I'd feel some sort of magical "zsa zsa zsu" (props to SATC). Perfect Love/Love. Needless to say, I was a little let down. It felt like every other urban city USA. But I still loved it. Loved the bustle and diversity. I loved Lincoln Center and the city's embrace of the fine arts. It was a refreshing change from what I thought was the opressive culture at my high school. It represented a larger world and I was hooked.

That is, until I became more serious about my future in violin. By the time I graduated with the degree I thought I wanted, I'd let NYC represent the elitist and cynical attitudes of certain narrow-minded classical musicians. In my head, NYC had somehow become the oppresive culture and I wanted no part. Love/Hate.

Last week, I finally returned, happily without an ounce of violinistic aspiration. I LOVE/LOVE it once again. I stayed clear of Lincoln Center and hardly glanced at Carnegie Hall. Instead, I couldn't wait to have Tasti D-lite in its city of origin, wait in the long line at Magnolia Bakery for a cupcake, and just generally enjoy the city. I even had a few surprises, including the Zaha Hadid (my new FAVORITE architect) special exhibit at the Guggenheim.

I stayed with my friend who is a violinist and is not at all elitist, cynical or narrow-minded. And it finally dawned on me that I need to stop making NYC represent anything besides what it is. And I love it.

Travel on a shoe string what?

Why is it that as soon as I booked my tickets for my trip to New York, the first thing I did was go shoe shopping...for the trip? And I realized that it's a pattern. I spend several days to find a reasonable air fare, for the most part limit my travels to places where friends are so that I can stay with them and not pay for lodging, and then agonize over whether the plane fare is worth it. But then as soon as I buy the tickets, I go out to buy a list of "must haves" for the trip without even blinking an eye.

And yet, I continue to smile and say, "Thanks to my frequent flier miles, I'm going to Manhattan for $55 dollars!!"

It’s the same each time
with progress. First they ignore you, then they say you’re mad, then dangerous,
then there’s a pause and then you can’t find anyone who disagrees with you

--Tony Benn

Fun things to do when things at work are slow

And this is in addition to the paper Dirk shrine at work....

Shout out to G-town

Congratulations again! Had a great time at the housewarming. Love how you've personalized the house and I love, love, LOVE the pool... Mrs. G, I know I tell you this all the time, but seeing the house further proves to me that you are one of the most amazing people I know and everything you do and have reflects that. You deserve it all!! And Waco Hoover, I still say that you are the real musician. I just read notes.

Lap Dogs

"I'd rather be trapped in a coal mine with 3 republicans and a lap dog..."
--Tyne Daly's character in Judging Amy, explaining how much she does NOT want to do something.

As much as I often laugh and dismiss lap dogs as a concept, this is what really happens: I see the dog and smile and give it the obligatory scratches behind the ears, under the chin, etc. I move on, rolling my eyes. Lap dogs...puhleeze. 10 minutes later, where is the dog? In my lap basking in my undivided attention and affection.

In case anyone is wondering, you will not find me with 3 republicans in my lap, basking in my undivided attention and affection.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name..

Fortunately, I have a few places like this.. I went to one of them today..the salon. Most women will agree that when you find a hair designer/stylist that you like, don't switch! I've been fortunate to have found that person when I was 7 years old. With exception to my 4 years in NY, I have been a loyal client. I now have to drive a good 30 minutes to get there, but I never even considered finding a new place for my cuts, color, nails and waxing. I've been with them through 3 locations, several expansions and a few rare staff changes. I'm even invited to employee parties and events (weddings and showers included). I love all that.

But I also love the little moments: giggling with the girls while flipping through our first Men's lingerie catalog, sorting through romantic interest from other clients (fortunately, they have the good sense to go through the front desk staff who can give me the scoop and re-arrange the schedule if something feels creepy), swapping faux tan tips, breaking out into occasional dance.... and the list goes on.


Walking out of somewhere looking better on the outside and feeling better in the inside? Worth every penny.

Mavs Mania

We are not making it up. Mavs mania is an authentic phenomenon that has swept over the big D and its inhabitants. Just a small sample of proof:

• As far as bebe Me is concerned, feminine wiles ( a very real and effective power) should only be used for good. Somehow, this particular principle slipped her mind, coincidentally, at about the same time an opportunity for Mavs tickets (season holder tix) arose.
• Every girl in the DFW area, whether she will admit it or not, has a crush on Dirk Nowitsky. Tall.... Blond... And to watch him on the court... mmm (..wait, did I just admit something?)

I swear, it's the mania talking...

In these busy times...

The following email (the gist of it) appeared in my inbox on Wed. afternoon:

hi girls! Wanna get together for dinner next Wednesday night?

Ten emails and 2 days later, 3 girls were able to set one night for dinner.

And when is that night?

In 3 weeks.

Timeless Question for This Dark Chocolate Lover

Why do they even bother to make milk chocolate?

Maybe it's YOU

If I'm shivering and say something about feeling cold in the arctic TX air conditioning, it is because I really am cold and probably have goose bumps and am tired of keeping quiet, just so that I won't hear any or all of the following:

"You need to gain weight."
"You need to wear more clothes."
"It's because you don't eat meat."

I'm sorry, I just get cold easily. And when someone says they are really hot, I don't ever say, "You need stop eating meat. And while you're at it, lose some weight so that you can wear less clothing."

to Steve Nash

CUT YOUR HAIR, YOU FREAK!!!!!!!

Apologies to all my usual game watching buddies for having to listen to me say that a million times during every game.

Digital Camera Saga at a Small Company

Me: Our digital camera isn't working.

Controller: The lens is broken. Who broke it?

Me: I'm not sure. Somebody probably dropped it.

Controller: Who dropped it?

Me: I don't know. Can we get it repaired?

Controller: That will cost more than a new camera. Who was the last one to use it?

Me: (inwardly sighing) I really don't know. But I need to take some pictures to send to a client...

Controller: Somebody here broke it. So now, we have no digital camera to use.

Me: (inwardly screaming) Well, I guess I'll wait for one of the other reps to show up and use her camera to send these pictures.

Controller: ok. (hands the broken, useless camera back)

AAAAARRRRGH!!!!!

Shout out to the sexiest girl in Palo Alto

You rock! Thank ALL that is holy that we will never think it's sexy to wear a thong and shake cellulite (aka what she thinks is her hot little ass) in front of everyone at the pool even if the music is mixed by Julio the Wonder Boy Who Dates Supermodels.

The old school Madonna house mix almost made up for freaky cracker DJ, standing in line for 15 minutes for 2 drink orders (and who knows how much longer without the so totally-un-PC- that-I-can't-write-it on-this-blog, new "friend" of yours), drunk gropers, friggin' 70 degree no shorts weather, and the worst.... dearth of hip-hop clubbing (Why is it SO difficult to find??)

Love your kitties (certain aromas are forgotten) and that shy guy!

Coming soon: you and me, the beach and pina coladas!

A Dallasite in Phoenix

My thought process as I stepped off the plane for my layover in Phoenix yesterday:

Phoenix...booooooo. If only I had a Mavs shirt or hat...

Wait a minute. I'm at an airport. Most of these people aren't even from Phoenix and probably don't give a flyin' flip.

Cool, I'm in Phoenix! Must go immediately to the gift shop to get some Cactus candy. Mmmmmm... Yea, Phoenix!

Bikini Blunders???

My latest fashion challenge:

This weekend, I will be at a big MTV style pool party in the San Francisco area. But wait....what shoes do I wear? And jewelry? And..handbag? Do you bring a handbag or a beach bag? How is it that I know exactly how to dress to go out to a club, to a cocktail party, to a wedding, etc., but I am clueless about how to dress for a "pool party?" Apparently, pool parties have changed since the days when you showed up at your b/f/f's backyard pool with a towel and a noodle...

Signs You are Having the Best Birthday Party Ever

• It lasts for 8 hours.
• You dance for 5 hours straight, during which the following occurs:

1. Someone gets the idea to go knocking on neighbors' doors to sell tickets to watch you (if you are a girl) and your friend (another girl) dance together ("do you know how many straight men would PAY to see this??")

2. You get cash tucked in your pants when you stand up on a ledge to dance

3. 3 hours into it, your hair's fallen flat and your make up is melted, but you are still going and telling everyone you're "dancing for (fill in charity of choice)"

• The owner of the house keeps coming in, turning the music down and telling you that you're going to "blow the speaker system." (You ignore him and keep turning it up as soon as he leaves)
• You are wearing a tiara from Libby Lu's (shop for little girls who dream of being a princess) all night long and you find out that the teenager down the street who is having her birthday party is wearing a tiara too.
• The theme and decorations revolve around disco balls of all sizes and all the guests are wearing mini disco balls around their necks and, naturally, making appropriately inappropriate jokes.
• One of the biggest lightweights at the party keeps refilling his drink, takes 3 hits, and wants to look through all the drawers in the house.
• By the end of the party, a VIP of a certain clothing boutique that is very close to this blogger's heart is wearing a gay man's pair of white tube socks with her denim capris.
• The next morning, the married girl can't remember flashing her hoo hoos.
• The word of the night somehow becomes "po po ZOW" (sorry K-Fed, I'm not really sure how to spell that)
• The paper boy delivers the paper before the last guest leaves.

And one last sign... People are still talking and laughing about it 5 days later.

Happy Birthday to me!!

No, I do not want to share a dessert

bebe Me loves some dessert. I know, it's an accepted practice (especially among women) to be out with someone and suggest sharing a dessert from the menu. I've spent my life trying to figure out a delicate way to say, "hell, no!" and how to determine how well I have to know someone to say it. Even if I've just barely met you, you can share my entree, my salad, my appetizer and please share my drink, but leave this girl's dessert alone. I mean, you really don't want to mess with anything that makes a girl's eyes roll back and makes her say, oooooh... do you?

Expensive Friendships

What does it mean if you get almost as many birthday cards from retailers (Happy birthday! Your gift is contingent on your spending more money with us!) than you do from your friends and family?

Friends say the darndest things..

I used to keep a list of my favorite quotes from friends. This is my latest favorite from my favorite Cali girl:

I always thought I paid high california rent in exchange for nice weather. Well this year, I want a REFUND!

Comic relief for the job seeker

During the sometimes grueling and always evolving process of figuring out what you want to do professionally, why not take a break and figure out what you really don't want and probably shouldn't do professionally? For bebe Me, the following come to mind immediately:

• A cab driver or truck driver or any professional driver-- unless it's cool with the client to allow at least and extra hour for getting lost and turning around and sometimes ending up taking the looong way.
• A NFL player-- having my body weight as public knowledge is NOT cool with me. Not to mention the more obvious obstacles..

If picturing myself as either one of those professionals doesn't bring some laughs and giggles, I don't know what will.

There is more than one path to creativity

I spent some time at the Nasher Sculpture Center this weekend which is pretty cool if you've never been there:

http://NasherSculptureCenter.org

Once again, as I read about all the tumultuous details of artists' lives, I can't help but wonder why much of society seems to expect artists (visual, performing and writing) to have exclusive claim on all the world's suffering. Are historians who are writing about the artist's life seeking it out to add authenticity? And with this mindset, how can any artist resist magnifying anything in their life that could be perceived as drama so that they can tap into the furthest corners of their creative powers?

I'm not saying that pain isn't a valid source of creativity because it can be. But as someone who lived and studied in the world of the arts for many years, I have seen great artists who lead (gasp!) average, stable lives

Take a deep breath, close your eyes and jump in..

The future is uncertain..but this uncertainty is at the very heart of human creativity.
--Ilya Prigogine

At a time in my life where I really do feel like I'm jumping into uncertain waters in many ways, I am reminded that nothing shapes character more significantly than stepping out of a comfort zone. I always enjoy the process, but I also can't wait for that moment that makes it all worth it..when you emerge from the water, refreshed, energized and alive. That sensation is why we continue to allow ourselves to fall, dust ourselves off and try again.

Oh what they are missing..

Recently, I saw a segment on the local news about what people in Manhattan think about Texas. There are actually people who still think that we live in the sticks with a couple of horses each. Ok, so I haven't been to every little town in the Lonestar state, so maybe there still is some of that, but puhLEEZE. Here's what a girl who genuinely loves NYC, but loves TX even more has to say to them: Y'all need to GET OUT some.

bebe Spring 2006

The new spring collection has arrived and once again, I want to especially thank a couple of very special friends for asking me to model at the premier. Congratulations on your stores' successes this year!

For all you fashion seekers, my favorite store is stocked with sexy pencil skirts and fitted tops, short shorts, denim skirts and warm weather shrugs. Still plenty of sparkle and sheen, chunky jewelry and wedge heels to go around....

Bring on the warmer weather!

Happy Birthday to my Dad

Thank you to my Dad for:

• Teaching me to appreciate all things in nature (rocks, flowers, plants and animals)
• Disagreeing with me and insisting that I really was smart enough to understand math
• Believing that anyone can improve at anything if they just put forth the effort
• Showing me by example that being courteous and saying a few cheerful words to every person you run across (including toll booth attendatns, security guards, etc.) can make them and me smile
• Supporting my lofty dreams as a teenage aspiring violinist, financially and emotionally
• Never saying anything negative about my mother
• Showing me by example than there is such thing as a man who is comfortable with himself, has a backbone and is a good leader while still being faithful to, respectful toward, and supportive of women. (whether I always believed I would find someone like that is a different story, but whenever I'd hear other people say that men like that don't exist, I always knew deep inside that there was at least one)