A Math Test. Otherwise known as “That which will keep me grounded in the real world”

With this post, I’m about to break 2 of my own cardinal rules:

1. Never ever use my blog to rant over things in my life about which nobody else gives a damn.
2. Never throw my educational pedigree around as if it means that I’m all that. It’s bad form and it certainly DOES NOT mean that I’m all that – believe me, nobody knows that better than I do. And furthermore, once again: nobody gives a damn.

If I were the one reading this blog post about someone else, I’d probably want to stop reading here.

But if you are still reading, congratulations – the truth is that I think you’ll laugh in the end. So here goes. Yesterday, I spent TWO HOURS at the local community college so that I could register for 2 leveling courses that I need in order to officially earn my graduate degree. I’m taking them there because it has been recommended to me as a cheaper and easier route. So I spent two hours in a large, crowded waiting room where they provided several copies of “Popular Science” from 2003 because, you know, I guess the HIGHER EDUCATED types read “the monthly magazine about current science and technology” from FOUR YEARS AGO.

I was waiting to talk with an advisor, but apparently, you must first be screened for academically transmitted diseases. During this screening, I had to confirm that I indeed have a degree even though my transcript does not say in large block letters across the top: WE PROMISE THAT SHE EARNED AN ACCREDITED BACHELOR OF MUSIC DEGREE HERE AT THIS SCHOOL. Forever and a half later, an advisor finally came out from the back and yelled out my name not unlike the way they do at Schlotzky’s when your sandwich is ready. Things started getting better, however, in her office as we chatted about my situation and the classes I wanted to take. That is, until she started flipping through my transcript. “Hmmm. Where’s your math class?”

Which is when I had to explain that we didn’t take math at my school. The fact that the school administration insisted on a mandatory Humanities credit was enough for most performance majors to question the validity of its claim to be an authentic music conservatory. I mean, really. A music conservatory that REQUIRES such a worldy distraction? That kind of progressive thinking is the very thing that threatens the sanctity of the art. (Thankfully, I can honestly say that I was one of those progressive thinkers that did NOT agree)

And that is when I was informed that in order to take any classes at this community college, Texas law requires me to take a math test to ensure that I am CAPABLE of doing college math (up to Algebra II).

Even though I took the GRE and scored perfectly well. Even though, in high school, I was on the honors math track through Algebra II and when I left the honors track, the teacher kept asking me why I wasn’t in honors. Even though in my math-deficient college education, I successfully completed 2 years of Tonal Theory and 1 year of 12-tone atonal theory. And believe me, you don’t get through those classes (matrices anyone?) without an understanding of college-level math.

And here is where I get unbearably snooty (just warning you): I didn't just graduate from college. I graduated with a VERY HIGH GPA and an EXTREMELY DIFFICULT degree from the classical music’s equivalent to an IVY LEAUGE which, I know might sound just a little obscure to most, but can be easily verified with just a little bit of research. I am currently attending what is sometimes referred to as a “public IVY” whose advertising program for which I am enrolled has been consistently ranked in the top 4 (often 1st) programs in the country. And can I mention AGAIN that I took the GREs and in fact scored WELL ABOVE AVERAGE even among the students accepted in my program? And in that big ol’ waiting room, I actually PICKED UP an issue of “Popular Science” instead of staring vapidly into space or talking on the phone to a friend about whose best friend can’t stand whose boyfriend. And TEXAS LAW is telling ME that I can’t take the same damn course as any one of those people unless I take a MATH TEST?

So incensed was I that I called my mom as soon as I got home to say, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!” To which I did receive the much needed mom empathy. But every time she tried to move on and ask me something else like, “How was school today?” I would answer, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!”

PREPOSTEROUS. A school that insists on a mandatory math test. I am an advertising graduate student! I mean, really. A school that requires such an irrelevant distraction? That kind of backwards thinking is the very thing –

Waaiiit. Ok then. Give me a pencil. I have to review for a math test.

Plan “C my Dust-free Shoes”

Since moving to Austin and becoming a student with a conservative budget and with wardrobe decisions limited by the fact that I have to walk on a daily basis for several blocks in something other than my workout wear, I’ve begun to worry about certain sections of my Dallas Working Girl Wardrobe - especially the one more commonly known as “going out clothes,” which has been relegated to the deepest depths of my closet where a girl on a budget dares not go too often. Sometimes, in the midst of writing an abstract for my annotated bibliography, my old friend Panic will whisper urgently in my ear until I jump up and run to my closet just to make sure that the pretty tops and dresses haven’t yet collected an inch of dust and a foot of so-last-year. Last weekend, I finally had the opportunity to unearth some of these items (including, of course, the bad-ass 4 in. stiletto heels) in the form of an official new-ad-grad-students-in-Summer-II night out.

I’ve been really happy about how quickly I’ve been able to make a large number of friends within my program at school. So once we decided on the date, I enthusiastically designated myself as the “event coordinator.” Wanting to be completely thorough, I sent out an email with the where, when and how much; a link to The Elephant Room’s website where we’d be starting out; and carpool group details. My carpool group had a total of four people and all four of us made it to the right places at the right time with no problems until we were in the final car ready to go to The Elephant Room – Austin’s own nationally recognized live jazz bar. The car was running and we were all fastened in and totally pumped that it wasn’t pouring rain as was forecasted. And me? Not only were my feet resplendent at last, in shiny patent brilliance, but I was also feeling pretty damn good about pulling this all off so smoothly. And then, the driver put her hand on the gearshift and said, “Ok, now where is this place?”

Complete silence.

“Um, I don’t know. Don’t you?”

“I thought YOU knew.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s on Congress somewhere.”

“Ok, hold on, hold on. I know.” (me)

Collective sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God. You know. So where is it?”

“No, no. I’m just saying that I know that I’m going to call Jane.* Maybe she knows.”

Now you may be thinking that this brilliant resourcefulness had something to do with a sense of responsibility as the “event coordinator.” In fact, it had nothing to do with that. But it had everything to do with the black patent leather on my feet. Because a real Dallas Girl always has a SOLID Plan B** to get her shoes out on the dance floor.

*Not her real name.
**Ok, so she didn’t know either. But you see, the SOLID Plan B always has a SOLID Plan C which consists of driving around downtown until someone sees it.

Big Geeks Far from the Prairie

Where on the geek-o-meter do we fall if my mom called me to tell me to TURN ON THE TV! Because a special 2-hour episode of Little House on the Prairie comes on in 15 minutes - and she thinks it's one we've never seen! (which is just short of a miracle since we spent all of my childhood summers watching re-runs)

And I immediately jumped up to grab the Tivo remote so that I could record it.

Dream a little dream

How fantastic would it be if your academic research topic had to do with TEEN FICTION?

I’ll tell you. It’s BLOODY FANTASTIC. That’s right – got it approved today. By the professor. And he looked genuinely excited about it.

50% of the grade for the class! On teen fiction!

Because you want your skin to be soft, supple, and as thick as an elephant's

All healthy derision and sarcasm aside, there are some things from my previous Violin-centric living for which I am grateful. Like the fact that you don’t get a performance degree without cultivating the resilience of something like 100 extra strength rubber bands. Part of this comes from the daily opportunities to stand completely vulnerable in front of both peers and established artists as they mercilessly critique and evaluate your work and ideas – the ideas into which you’d been putting your blood, sweat, tears and a kidney or two. You do this even when the ideas aren’t quite fully developed and you have to bite your tongue lest you give in to the uncontrollable urge to tell everyone that swear to God, in the practice room, you nail that passage every time. You do this every day and you learn to get over yourself and leave your easily bruised feelings at home because those extraordinarily fresh ideas you had? Maybe not quite as extraordinarily fresh as you thought. At least they aren’t coming across that way. But you also learn to evaluate your own work better. And then, what do you know? Your work really does get better.

I miss that. I also miss the sense of empowerment and exhilaration you get from getting out of the sidelines and into the ring.

And that is why I volunteered to get up in front of the class yesterday to share my life map. I was a bit apprehensive as it was a totally different ring from the violin ring, which I knew like back of my bow hand. Not to mention it’s been a while since I’ve put something I’ve created out there to be examined for more than just looking pretty or sounding funny. Granted, the setting for this particular introductory class is not to critique and evaluate, but rather to share and enjoy. Everyone gets a pat on the back. But it was still an opportunity to get back in the ring. Because someday soon, in some way, I’m sure that I’m going to have to get over myself again.

But maybe even more significant is that I stood up in front of my peers, my prof. and the TA this week and admitted that YES, I am a graduate student and I love pink, I love glitter and I love girl pop. So there.

The answer is not "the combination of red and white"

I cancelled a trip to Dallas this weekend (I know, I know, but I have a very good reason) so that I could quantify my entire life up to this point on an 11x17 flat surface.

It is just as fun as and even more difficult than it sounds and is something you should definitely try if you would like to experience the power of the creative process first-hand. Because you might be very surprised.

If, for example, you’d asked me before I created this life map, which question my life has answered, I’d might have said one of the following:

•What happens when a person makes the same mistake over and over again?
•When am I going to find something I love to do that makes as much money as the things that I don’t love to do? (wait, no that’s actually a question that my life has NOT answered)
•Why, oh WHY did I spend so much of my life in a violin-centric bubble? (I ask myself this every day after all)

Or even:

•How did the painfully shy kindergartner who pretended she knew how to skip and actually faked the motions IN FRONT OF HER ENTIRE CLASS when it was her turn, because it was better than speaking up to say that she was home sick on the day that they learned it, end up being the one who frequently strikes up conversation with strangers in the check-out line?

And I really did incorporate most of those questions into this project. But who knew that in the end, I would discover that I’ve lived my entire life in order to answer the following question:

What does pink mean? (and why the hell aren’t I Britney Spears yet?)

I mean, YOU wouldn’t go to Dallas without knowing what pink means, would you?

Taking a Closer Look

Some things my group discovered around campus and on the drag for our Creative Strategies assignment today:





On the sidewalk (next two images):





The trees along this street have metal "tracking" tags on them:






I was the one who insisted that we take this one, because, well, I've actually felt a little like this tree before - trying to break OUT OF THE BOX. (By the way, you will never, ever hear me liken myself to a tree again.)

A Warm Welcome Home from the Crickets

Those little black spots.



This is the stairway that leads from my front door up to my living space. Now wasn't that thoughtful of these three to line up to greet me?

They are just so damn sweet!

One down and she's still kickin'

So I’ve survived my FIRSTGRADUATECLASS. I realize that my perception of graduate reality so far consists of ONE class that met only twice a week and was over in six weeks. But still, I’ve successfully dipped my toe into the pool. In fact, I'd venture to say that I've got at least one foot in the water by now. And guess what? I’m feeling ok.

Apparently, I am the first student in the history of Media Management ADV385 to have led the entire class in a round of applause and cheering at the end of our last textbook assignment. But what else would you expect from The Queen of pre-graduate school agony and panic? This is a BIG DEAL.

Believe me, it’s a miracle that I didn’t bring my disco ball and portable stereo to class so that we could have a proper get-down, hip-swingin', hands-up, Soultrain-aspiring throw down.

Very Properly Giving the Finger to Academic Paper Writing

Because I hate it almost as much as I hate Victorian furniture.

And you can’t start sentences with words like “and.”

Or include incomplete sentences.

• Or use bullets even though I’m pretty sure most people in “the real world” prefer bullet points to ponderous prose when they are reading about a TOTALLY DRY topic

OR WRITE IN ALL CAPS WHEN YOU WANT TO EMPHASIZE SOMETHING.

And quotation marks aren’t used to add sarcasm to a “normal” word/phrase.

And you can’t use words-that-are-actually-a-bunch-of-words-strung-together.

Or insert extra periods even if that is the. only. way. to make your point.

Or throw in a shout out, even if it’s in parentheses (ex: BTW, Dr. Smith, that joke you told in class the other day about this? Totally LMAO!)

And BTW, UR definitely NOT allowed to use short hand like that either,

And using slang? Bloody hell no, y’all. Fo’ shizzle.

Blah, blah. BLAH.

The W/D Connection

And did you press your cheek up against its coldness and wrap your arms around its boxy-ness and kiss it yet?

Ok, yes. I was the one who instant messaged that. But it was my FRIEND who IMed:

I finally know what it’s like to be IN LOVE with a washer and dryer.

Because we had an entire exchange wherein we waxed on and on and on about a washer and dryer (wait, did I really just write “wherein?”) - the washer and dryer that used to be mine before I sold them to my friend in all its Whirlpool glory and moved to the pale mud green apartments, where I’m provided with an astonishingly efficient (read: teeny, stackable, no frills) W/D set. And while they were taking my beloved Whirlpools out and loading it into the back of her truck, I must have said to her at least 100 times, “LOOK, it has a HAND-WASHABLES setting. See? Do you see it? You can wash your HAND WASHABLES in there.”

AND I could put more than a small basketful of laundry in there. AND there was a special timed device in which to put my laundry softener. AND if I really did have only a small basketful of bath towels, I could dry it in just one dryer cycle. And don't even get me STARTED on the extremely impressive array of setting options.

All of which, of course, I didn’t fully appreciate until it was gone.

But now I know, oh washer and dryer set, how great thou art. We miss you!

We being me, my clothes and my bottle of original formula Woolite.

Sisterhood, Sappiness, and All of That

One of my girls (the Boutique VIP) from Dallas came to Austin this week to visit her Austin stores. It was the first time I’ve seen one of my Dallas female friends since I moved.

Like most women, when it comes to that girlfriend connection, I turn into a certified sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. And I’m not generally a sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. But I totally get why people write entire books and films about it. I've been known to pore over an extensive photo essay or two. I mean, you know it’s a very powerful bond when you don’t even think twice about holding someone’s hand because she’s too drunk to make it to the restroom on her own, and then going into the stall with her to make sure she doesn’t fall into the toilet* because you know that she would totally come to your rescue and pretend to be your lesbian date when that sleazy guy on the dance floor won’t leave you alone. Of course, there are different levels of sap. I’d say that I relate less, if at all, to the girls who get together to bake milk chocolate chip cookies while crying together over epic love movies and more to those of us who know that real women eat dark chocolate and aren’t afraid of saying that the newborn baby in that picture is ugly. But the actual bond itself is the same across all sap levels. And while modern technology allows us to connect, even in different cities, there is still nothing like being together in person.

Which is why I was so happy to see the Boutique VIP in person. So that we could be in the same room to do the following: compare “father talking to his daughter” stories, wonder why it’s so hard for people to understand why it REALLY IS a big deal for some of us to go camping and not be able to wear make-up and jewelry for more than a couple days, and dish about our NBA crushes in detail. There is something reassuring about looking across your drink and seeing someone else who once thought boys had cooties. In my case, it was an especially sappily sentimental opportunity to spend time with someone who’s known me for more than a month, who knows me well enough to have blackmail stories from 5 years ago and who’s answered the phone and just listened to me cry because my heart was broken but I had nothing to say. Someone who I’ve known long enough that I could show her my new laptop bag, ask if the color was truly hideous and expect an HONEST answer. It felt like home.

*I should clarify that this particular act is something I've done before, but NOT something that I've ever had to do for the Boutique VIP. It was just an example to illustrate my point here which happened to be in the same post I wrote about her.

Don't let the graduate students fool you

With less than a week until the due date of our media plan project, I just had this exchange with one of my group members:

"Wow. I think I finally feel like I know what I'm talking about."

"How did you know? I was just thinking that I feel like I finally know what I'm talking about."

And yet we've all managed to work on and fight over this thing for FOUR WEEKS already. It's amazing how many things there are to fight about even when you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

I have something to say. Three Times.

I politely declined a request for my phone number from Guy at Apple Store yesterday. He did a truly impressive job of intertwining flirtatious comments right in there with his helpful comments regarding the Airport Extreme Base Station vs. the Airport Express Base Station. He's a nice guy. In fact, he was so nice that he helped me pick the better deal and helped me save money. Twice. So I gave my heartfelt thanks. But when he called my name out and came running after me as I was on my way out of the store, clearly putting himself on the line in front of all of his co-workers, and asked for my number, I didn’t feel bad about saying no. Furthermore, I did not feel obliged to say, “Sorry I’m seeing someone” or apologize or lie in any way shape or form. Women everywhere would be shocked and appalled.

How, they would ask, can you be so mean?

GET OVER YOURSELF.

I have always maintained that you do NOT have to lie when you don’t want to give a man your phone number. Here’s the thing. I find it remarkably insulting when someone lies to me. Essentially, they are taking me for a fool. I’m with Judge Judy: “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.” And it’s even more insulting and ridiculously presumptuous when someone lies to me because they think I’m made of damn glass. Please. GET OVER YOURSELF.

I mean, to each her own and all of that, but I’m just saying that if you want to say “No thank you,” for the love of God, just say, “No thank you” or something to that nature. You don’t have to say, “HELL, no. Are you fucking kidding me?” But you don’t have to give some sort of fake phone number or say, “Oh, um, well, you know. It’s just.. it’s just. I’m sorry. It’s just that I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry” And you know what else? Even if you do have a significant other, hopefully the reason you don't want to give your number is because you are genuinely NOT interested, so you can just say, “No thank you.” Believe me, the guy just met you – he’s not going to stay up at night crying because YOU said “No thank you.”

One more time: GET OVER YOURSELF.

The Crickets ARE NOT in Times Square

Because they are following me through the great state of Texas. Throughout the 6 years I lived at the last apartment complex, my friends, coworkers and family were regularly regaled with The Great Cricket Tales: How for one particularly bad 2 weeks, I’d have 7-8 new ones come to visit every night; how they could jump as high as my waist; how that jumping was so loud that I kept thinking there was another person messing around in the apartment; and how I could swear up and down that they were IN MY INTERCOM BOX. These sound like exaggerations, but they are not. I admit that the intercom box one sounded a little daffy even to me, until one day I SAW one of them scuttling back into said box which eventually led to the dismounting of the box, only to find (if you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip ahead) at least 20. dead crickets. inside.

So most of these friends and family thought it was totally crazy that there were crickets coming into my apartment in the first place. Ants, beetles, spiders, even scorpions... yeah, those are regular sightings in Texas homes. But crickets? Apparently, it was only me. Oh, they’d pat my hand and say, “there, there,” but I’m quite certain that they’d all go on and regale all of their friends with The Great “Crazy Girl with the Cricket Tales” Tales. I felt somewhat validated when upon moving out with the help of some of these people, behind the washer and dryer which hadn’t been moved for 6 years, there were dozens upon dozens of old dead crickets. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about those crickets, were you?”

Kidding? Yes, I love to make up stories about being scared shitless over creatures the size of my thumb.

It took no longer than 2 weeks here in Austin for them to find me again. Oh the familiar sound of long floppy legs and merry chirping (“We’re here! We’re here! Did you miss us?”). To my pleasant surprise, however, I’ve discovered that when I see one, I’m no longer immediately frozen with fear. My heart doesn’t start to race and I don’t start sweating with only one thing left to do: stand there staring at it for one whole minute as it gleefully frolics around the room until I work up enough courage to run for the Raid, spray the thing from 8 ft. away and shriek each time it jumps (insect activists should stop reading here) until it finally gives up and dies, leaving me in a cloud of toxic fumes.

NOW, I see one of my cricket friends and say, “Well, of course.” I immediately reach for the Woolite Carpet Cleaner (might as well clean the carpet while I’m at it) and give the thing a few squirts to slow it down. And then, sometimes while it’s STILL ALIVE, I’ll either push it toward the door to kick it outside or I’ll pick it up with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet. No toxic fumes required.

By golly, if for nothing else, graduate school is good for your fear of crickets.

For the West TX-grown, West Coast Ivy Leauge educated Palo Alto Girl

Because of her, I can never say that my Kindergarten year in Littleton, Colorado was dull. Because of her, I am still just an instant message away from a laugh. Or a bitch-session. Or a purchase consultation. Because of her, there is at least one person who truly hears me when I speak.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATWOMAN!!!


- From the N. TX-grown, East Coast Conservatory educated Dallasite

The Real Accomplishment of Graduating

I learned a lot of things in college.

Impressive things like how to sing “Happy Birthday” in solfege, analyze “The Rite of Spring,” and completely dissect the Sonata form. (What do you mean you’re not impressed?)

Interpersonal things like if you manage to recruit a chamber group without at least one person who will show up to rehearsals only half of the time and in a half baked state, then you’ve TOTALLY beaten the odds.

Useful things such as: when you live in Rochester, NY in the winter time, you need not bother trying to look sexy when you walk (it’s all in the hip shifting) or style your hair because if you don’t wear a stiff, hooded, down-filled coat that goes down to at least your knees and allows for no extraneous movement plus a warm hat that covers your ears under the hood of that coat, then you WILL freeze your ass off.

And as so recently pointed out to me by various people in my life, illegal things. Like jaywalking across the busiest multi-lane intersection in downtown on an average of 15 times a day. At the time, it didn’t seem as if I was risking my life each time I ran on the snow and ice in the above-mentioned coat (which if you are wearing, you have to turn your entire body in order to look left or right) while carrying a bag full of books and an instrument worth thousands of dollars in just enough time to beat the next speeding car. It seemed the only smart thing to do. I mean, it was COLD and we didn’t have the time to just STAND there at the light, waiting for it to change. Please. Those lights were just suggestions.

Which is why I felt a sense of familiarity during my first visit to my new campus, even before I accepted admission. Not only is the communications building located on one of the busiest intersections on campus, but when the Director of the program walked me over from his office to said building, he didn’t just jaywalk, he jaywalked at least 10 feet away from the actual intersection. As we jogged across, he turned to me and said, “They did teach you to jaywalk at that New York school, didn’t they?”

At that moment, I knew I was among friends. The difference is that now I check for cops.

Gratitude

What do you do when in the span of one month, during which time everything in your life is going exceptionally well, you find out that two of your good friends are suffering from serious and life-altering injuries?

The answer, I believe, is not necessarily an original one, but one that is always worth revisiting. You take inspiration from their courage to let go of the anger. And to awaken a renewed sense of appreciation for the good things. I have a lot of them right now.

Don't Shoot the Simple Girl

My favorite day of the year isn't my birthday, it isn't New Year's and it isn't Halloween - although all of those are high on the list.
My favorite day is the one that, in my view, is a literal celebration of "day," it being the one with the most daylight all year and the kickoff to my favorite season of summer with its hot sunny days and seemingly endless hours. Yes, I am a Lady of Lightness and Daughter of the Sun. If this means that my soul is simple and shallow, then SIMPLE AND SHALLOW BE I.

This year, I celebrated by experiencing the uniquely Austin "Mexonesian" (self-described) Hula Hut, located on Lake Austin in the best of company where I sat on the patio, looked out on the lake and had a delicious Bloody Mary at 4 pm on a Thursday afternoon. Indeed, there are some wonderful perks about being a student!

Happy June 21st!

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