Vamp in Wonderland

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

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

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

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

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

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

Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.

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

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

But why?, my mother asked recently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“g minor?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Boy: How tall are you in heels?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last night, I received an email from my mother:

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

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

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

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

Like a toy fish in a pond full of Koi

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

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

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

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




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

No longer strangers, enjoying a beautiful sunset by the lake

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

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

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

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


*Fake names of course

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should let them take my violin card

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Who says TV doesn’t make you smarter?

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

During my visit to my parents' house:

Mom: What are you watching?

Me: Forensic Files

pause as she watches for a moment

Mom: This is about a murder!

Me: Mmm-hmmm.




Hours later:

Mom: Now what are you watching?

Me: 20/20 on WE

pause

Mom: Another murder story?

Me: Investigative journalism





The next day

Mom: Is this 20/20 AGAIN?

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

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

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





Later

Me: Can I change the channel?

Mom: Ok.

channel is changed to "48 Hours Mystery"

Mom: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

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


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

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

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




*My ONE exception to the Dark Chocolate Rule

Where credit is due

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

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

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


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

Get a library card already

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

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

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

For FREE.

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

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

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

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







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

WORKOUT OVER

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

Pet Peeve #6: irresponsible germ spreaders

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

Gross.

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

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

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

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

And it has nothing to do with the lyrics

Sit down y’all.

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

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

Please God let it not be the latter.

Redeeming my frequent cryer miles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sex, Drugs and Pagannini

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

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

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

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

Now I can die a happy blogger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seen written on a public bathroom wall near campus:

“All eyes on me and I can’t breath.”

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

Thank God that my germaphobia trumps my spelling neuroticism.

Must be at least 6-8 characters in length

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

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

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

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

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

The place that has no apologies for its shiny new LA aspirations

If Dallas, TX wore a sweater - cashmere, I'm sure - I’d make it take that sweater off so that I could snuggle up next to the luxurious fibers and smell the shiny new shopping and pro sports centers before I fall asleep at night. Which might explain the sap oozing out of my pores after spending a week in the city that stole my heart.

It’s very sticky in here.

Them other girls, they don't know how to act

I’m not a big believer in New Year’s resolutions. I believe in whenever-the-hell-I-want resolutions. If I want to start a new habit on December 30th at 7:15 a.m., I’m going to start on December 30th at 7:15 a.m. Or April 9th at 8:37 p.m. Or July 8th at – well, you get my point. January 1st, whatever.

But I do usually take a few minutes every year at about this time to take stock of things: Am I going to a job day after day at which I am banging my head against the wall in noisy desperation? Are my relationships with family, friends and enemies where they need to be? (I am also a big believer in the power of relationships with enemies.) Have I saved enough money yet to completely furnish my place with everything in the cantoni showroom and just, you know, a few odds & ends from b&b Italia? (I leave a little extra time for laughter too.)

And if I'm unhappy with the answers to these questions, I try to figure out how I can change things. That is, I make sure that I’m not passively sitting around on my ass, letting life just happen to me. That being said, last January, I was so exhausted from my dedicated efforts to not passively sit around on my ass, that my only plan of action for the next 12 months was to get out of bed in the morning approximately 365 times. Which I did. And apparently, just by letting go a little, I actually did make a lot of things happen in the process. Not only that, but somewhere along the way, I started to feel like myself again and even managed to bring a little sexy back.

So this year, I'm going to do more than get out of bed 365 times. I'm going to get off my ass (even though it really is so comfortable on my cantoni sofa) and make important things happen. Absolutely. I think I'll even start by making some resolutions. Next semester, between case studies and research, I will fit in some good, quality, trashy reading. And while I'm condensing and condensing (AND condensing) taglines, I'll also write a few more earth-shatteringly meaningful blog posts with as many glorious and indulgently extraneous adjectives as possible. I will also eat a lot of Jazz apples and dark chocolate. And this year? I'm bringing ALL my sexy back.

How about that for a list of not-quite-January-1st resolutions?

This is going to be the BEST year ever.*



*People who know me well also know that I say this every year. But, as any other eternal optimist will tell you, somehow, it’s always true -even if it is only because you survived the WORST year ever.

Nice, generous, whatever

Everyone should grow up with an older brother. Because, you know, how else would you be able to play games with the same person everyday and somehow ALWAYS LOSE (even if you really did win)? Or let yourself be persuaded to trade your beloved sparkly, shiny puppy sticker for some other ridiculous, ordinary sticker of his and then when you regret it as soon as the trade is over, be informed that it’s now TOO LATE? How else could you discover that there is an alarm clock that’s set to go off every day at 4 p.m. hidden so well in your room that you never find it, even after 20 years? Or surrender your stuffed animals to an evil existence so that his stuffed animals could always be the good guys? So fun.

Of course, the fun times do go away after a while. Because one morning, you will wake up and have a brother who wants to be your friend. Who comes home from college and is sad because you are going out with your friends instead of spending every second with the one you’ve learned to trust as much as you trust a rattlesnake. And instead of buying one for himself, he gives you the newly unveiled Palm III for your college graduation and doesn’t throw up when you open it and can't figure out what it is. This is when you can expect that he will just keep getting nicer and nicer until you can hardly remember the innocent look plastered on his face right after he quietly pushed your DOING THIS WILL MAKE ME WANT TO PULL ALL OF MY HAIR OUT button.

Fortunately, you can always look back on the good times. Because you will never forget how a hidden alarm made you question your own sanity every day at 4 p.m. Or the way he used a sparkly, shiny puppy sticker to help you play an astonishingly good hand in the game of Mean Girl Sneaky Manipulations in high school. And sometimes, somewhere underneath that nice, generous grown man that everyone adores, you can still catch a glimpse of that manipulative, big brother that could outsmart you every time.

And you can breathe a big sigh of relief.

Yet more proof that my going back to school is like giving myself a root canal with a spoon

Final critique over.
Semester done.





Stress and panic about the spring semester already started.

The pink at the end of the tunnel

Things I will do (in this order) the minute Final Critique for my portfolio class is over:

1. High five my art director
2. Try to forget that I have a stats final at the community college the next morning by going to Trudy’s to grey goose it with all the others who survived the trenches of creative pain and panic right along with me
3. High five my art director
4. Take my final the next morning, which will be my LASTDAYOFTHESEMESTER!
5. Drive straight to the public library and check out a stack of teen fiction of which I’ve been deprived for 16 weeks now
6. Call up every person I know who, over the past 3 months, has listened to my continuous threatening to throw myself into a big vat of toxic chemicals
7. Tell all those people that Holy Mother of Fred, I made it through and now have 13/39th of a Master’s Degree
8. Enjoy a month of academic-free pink before the next round of little business math bitches, romantic laptop-screen-lit evenings with my textbooks, and nights during which I suddenly wake up in a state of full panic that I will NEVER have any more creative breakthroughs ever again

Aren’t y'all so jealous?

Daddy's Girl

What’s funnier than watching my father, who once switched newspaper subscriptions because his current one was “too liberal,” relax on the sofa after driving 3 hours to Austin, reach for the stack of newspapers on my coffee table - issues of none other than America’s Finest News Source, the Onion, and start reading the issue on top (the one with the following headline: BUSH MAKES SURPRISE VISIT TO WORK)? I just couldn’t resist. I waited for about a minute or so before I said off-handedly, “Oh Dad – you do know that’s a satirical paper, don’t you?”

He dropped that thing as if it were covered in the actual blood, sweat, and toenail clippings of every Democrat, every broadcast journalist not on Fox News and every Canadian, Brit or Russian who would vote for a U.S. Democrat if they could.

But it’s ok, because later that day, I told him that I’ve actually been enjoying my statistics class this semester. Sometimes I even think it’s pretty cool. A math class. The man’s face lit up brighter than the National Christmas Tree.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

I’ve had a huge crush for a little over a year now. On an ad agency. Yes, an ad agency. Because it was at this agency with its lovely people, its decidedly un-agency-like art-clad walls and its perfect, nearly uptown Dallas location that jump-started the unexpected uprooting of this Dallas girl to the city who proudly keeps it weird. (Nope, still not feeling the proud weird thing)

Last week, I finally sent a card to the President of this agency – a love letter deftly disguised as a professional networking communication. And this week, a new email appeared in my inbox as a direct result of this "professional networking communication." That’s right, the name of the President of the agency was in MY INBOX! (Cue cheesy Carpenters' song) I’ve been reading this email, swooning, on an average of once an hour for the past couple of days. You see, this crush of mine has extended an invitation to me to visit! The agency asked me out!

And somehow, none of this behavior – the swooning, the weak knees, The Carpenters - seemed at all odd to me.

That is, until I found myself reading and re-reading every word, analyzing EXACTLY what each one means: What exactly did he mean by “happy?” Does this mean that he likes me? And when he says “career path-“

WAIT A MINUTE. What the bloody hell am I doing?

I am a smart, independent aspiring advertising professional. Not a dramatic, love-sick teenager. I do not NEED an ad agency –

No, wait. I do need an ad agency.

Why do stars fall down from the sky? Every time you walk by…

And I've gotten really good at "accidentally" changing the channel when they're watching FOX News

My parents are pretty damn cool. I’m sure they never thought they’d have the daughter who would veer off into creative pursuits (and then shun them and then come back again, but that’s a whole other story) and reject the conservative values they instilled in her. Yet they continue to show nothing but support, genuine interest and unconditional love as they watch me crash and burn. And crash and burn. And crash and burn.

They are, in fact, so interested in the things that I do that they began putting generous amounts of money in every musician’s tip jar that they came across during that time when my life was all about 4-strings and horse hair. They’ve continued this practice and just the other day, informed me that they now find themselves stopping at promotional displays when they’re out shopping because I’m in advertising. Stopping and buying. A trip to Central Market last weekend cost them an extra jar of local honey and 2 cans of cookies. According to my mom, my life fancies are leading to their financial demise. (you can see where I got my inclination for hyperbole) Not to mention that they now pay special attention to media ads and usually call me to tell me their opinions of them. And the last time they were in Austin to visit, my dad spent every free moment reading my advertising textbooks and telling me about how great good, smart advertising really is. This from a man who, when I was growing up, would sit beside me while we watched TV and say, “You see these commercials? You see how they all claim to be the best? How can everything be the best? Do you think that make sense? The lesson here is: DON’T TRUST THE ADVERTISING. It’s a TRICK.”

But even more meaningful to me is their acceptance of me even as I live my life with values that are contrary to the ones that they so strongly believe. Unfortunately, it took me too many years to talk to them about it openly. Not because I thought they would be angry or that they would think less of me, but because I just didn’t want them to be sad. Only I wish I would’ve talked to them about it sooner because when I finally did this last year, it was the best thing I could’ve done for our relationship. They still show nothing but support, genuine interest and unconditional love for me and for the significant people in my life.

Pretty damn cool.

Because up until then, I still thought that things would actually be different this time

Twice a week, I park my car in the parking lot of a lovely neighborhood park and ride a big yellow school bus to class at the community college with the teeny tiny parking lot. So even though I come prepared every time with my official parking lot permit proudly hanging on my rearview mirror, I still get to take the big yellow school bus, just like the one I rode to kindergarten. Except that back then, I never noticed the big metal box bolted to the front of the bus that says “BODILY FLUIDS CLEAN UP KIT. BIO-HAZARD”

This week, I encountered another familiar vehicle. That’s right, I came flying into grad school on my old friend, the Bullshit Bike. Even though I came prepared, having read, studied and taken notes on every single word of every single page of material for a READING QUIZ.

Let me repeat that. A reading quiz. Closed-book, closed- notes. In graduate school.

So as I stared down at this quiz, light-headed and staggering from its decidedly undergraduate stench, I had no choice but to get right back on my undergraduate BS bike. And I have to say, not only did I not forget how to ride, but I also discovered that BSing about the four specific variables of an optimal communications budget according to Dr. One of 50 Different Marketing Scholars mentioned somewhere in the 300 pages worth of reading that I actually read and studied? Feels just like BSing about the medieval plainchants of the 15th century about which I never read or studied. The only difference I noticed about this familiar old vehicle is the big metal box bolted to my head that says “SHATTERED IDEALISTIC NOTIONS CLEAN UP KIT. ACADEMIC HAZARD.”

At least horns really do belong up there

Wearing a sooner wagon on your head is the stupidest, lamest thing I've ever seen.

Yeah, so maybe I'm just a little bitter.

Plus, she never yells back

The best thing about having inheriting a hand-me-down GPS is that it comes from the era before GPS voices had names. So while everyone else yells at Grace or Karen or Charles, I can yell at DAMN CRAZY-TALKIN’ STUPID WOMAN as we u-turn our way through my post-DAMN CRAZY-TALKIN’ STUPID WOMAN developed part of town.

Who the hell do I think I’m kidding? Even if she was named Svetlana and gave her dopey antique directions in a lovely Russian accent, I’d still call her DAMN CRAZY-TALKIN’ STUPID WOMAN. Bless her little global positioning heart.

I think I’m dead.

Deep-sixed by a Little Bitch called Business Math in all its unit contribution margin glory, my last words being, ”THIS!! THIS IS WHY I NEVER WANTED TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL!!” I should’ve known it would be the math. I’ve never trusted anything that has ONLY ONE correct answer. Just one. Nothing rings more false to me.*

And when I’m trying to figure out what in the hell is happening in a discounted cash flow, I am deprived of my strict, life-sustaining regimen of teen fiction, girl pop, blog writing, beautiful blue eyes and everything else that keeps me putting one wedge heel in front of the other. And every time I face yet another sum-of-years depreciation, I can already imagine the obituary of the girl with 6/39th of a Master’s Degree.

WAIT A MINUTE. To allow this Little Bitch to kill me? Hell, No. NOT the only answer.

I am not dead. Because right before Strategic Advertising Management and its evil Little Bitch partner Business Math muscled their way in, something happened. I began to breathe again. That’s what happens when you think you’ve finally found the work** that you never even knew you wanted, but for which you know you’ve lived your entire life to do. Where the concepts resonate with everything you’ve always thought and felt and you feel like you’re coming home. Little Bitch has nothing on that.

But more importantly, in the case that creative advertising doesn’t end up being home after all, at least I know that Little Bitch can never take away the blog writing. This I know because the only way that will end is in the event that I really am dead. And look at me now - writing for the blog. Not dead yet. But when I am, it WILL NOT be because of Business Math.

You can go ahead and tell that to the coroner.

*Ok, Ok, I’ll admit it. Nothing rings more false to me except, that is, when it comes to spelling, dangling prepositions in writing (even though I strongly believe that every other grammar rule in the book SHOULD BE BROKEN) and the correct usage of words. I have been known to come out of a sales meeting muttering, “FOR WHICH we are shooting. FOR WHICH, FOR WHICH.” and remembering nothing except that the written agenda had 2 misspelled words, a dangling preposition and that someone described a coincidence and called it "irony."

**Creative advertising

Laughter, love and sounding stupider because I’m trying to get more smarter

When you’ve been surrounding yourself with close textbooks and good business journal case studies while basking in the warm glow of the laptop screen and sharing joyful moments of underlining and page-turning, you get really good at having one-way conversations. Even with other people.

As evidenced by 3 recent exchanges:

Verbal Exchange #1

Friend: I don’t ever want to live in Dallas. It’s too highway.

Me: Really? I don’t think so at all. It’s nothing like Austin.

Friend: Are you serious? You think Austin has more than Dallas?

Me: Hell, yeah. Austin is totally hilly.

Email exchange:

Friend: hooray for friday. today is chill.

Me: So it's already starting to get chilly over there?

Friend: oh it's still warm here...i think i meant "chill" as in relaxed.

Verbal Exchange #2:

Me: I just found out that my dad has a connection to someone who works at The Martin Agency.

Friend (who used to live in Virginia): Where is that?

Me: Richmond, VA.

Friend (making a face): Ooh, Richmond is……

Me: I know, is really cool right? I have a friend who lives there and he says it’s awesome. It might be worth looking into for an internship opportunity.

Friend (looking confused, but trying to be tactful): Well, I mean, I guess it’s… Well, some people……

Me: Oh no, wait. He lives in Charlottesville. Actually, I think he told me once that Richmond sucks.

Pause of realization

Me: Like you were saying…

And in return, I tell her that C-O-M-M-I-T-M-E-N-T -phobia is perfectly normal

My friend Carena* is the one who taught me that holding something (an apple, a book, a puppy, but not a goldfish- that’s cruel) directly on top of your head for a minute or so is very calming when you can’t figure out how to organize your thoughts on paper. And that singing your To Do List when you’re trying to write a paper, study for a final, practice for an audition and find a place to live next year is a lot less stressful than writing it down. (Or as was more commonly practiced, keeping track of it in your head).

A decade later, she is still imparting refreshingly unconventional and effective wisdom - most recently when our phone conversation developed into a very detailed exchange of cricket horror stories. The thing is, as my recently found courage has been rapidly diminishing in this, The City of Never-ending Floppy Legged High Jumpers, I’ve been desperately seeking out advice in an effort to renew my valor. And during this conversation with Carena, as she proceeded to tell me about one that landed in the middle of her friend's forehead, she unwittingly gave me the best idea of all. You see, I’ve been calling them "crickets." She, on the other hand, calls them “C-R-I-C-K-E-T-S” because as she explained, to actually say the word is a bold and personal invitation for them to appear.

!

It was like the moment I realized that water is actually CLEAR (so why had I been using my blue crayon to color water?). Only Carena could give me such a brilliant, irrational solution to a completely irrational fear. From now on, they are C-R-I-C-K-E-T-S.

And now you might be thinking, That? Makes you feel better?

Yes. It does.

Carena understands. Which is just one of the reasons I am so lucky to have her as a friend.

*not her real name

Dixie bebe Me: Ashamed that Blue Bell is from Texas

It’s true. I hate Blue Bell ice cream. The very ice cream from Deep in the Heart of Texas, beloved by so many here in my great state.

But even more than I hate the ice cream, I hate the ad campaign. The romanticizing of the “good ol’ days” in American culture. You know, when people sat outside on their porch swings after sweet little mama spent all day making homemade lemonade and apparently, churning out homemade ice cream while she hung laundry on the line. The kids running around outside catching fire flies, swimming in swimming holes, waiting for “Mama hollerin' through the screen, 'would you kids like some home made ice cream?'”

Oh, and listening to Daddy belittle the Black man across the street.

Back in a “simpler time and place.” When kids could be kids FUTURE BITOGED BASTARDS.

How much fun did I have at the first home game last night?

So much that I discovered what happens to my beautiful ring after 3 1/2 hours of TEXAS FIGHT clapping:



Turns out my finger is not perfectly round.

But it can still form a "hook 'em" sign with the rest of my fingers in a heartbeat:



And my lungs can yell forever.

TEXAS FIGHT!

Guess what is in my refrigerator’s fruit drawer right now? Filled. To the brim.

If someone were to ask me which months I’d choose to come out of hibernation if I had to hibernate for 10 months out of the year (someone might TOO ask me that), I wouldn’t even have to think twice. I’d choose mid-July to mid-September. Why? Two sacred words:

White nectarines.

This being the season for that sweet, luscious Ambrosia of the Gods. This alone, my friends, is reason enough.

But since I’d be out already…

I could also load up on the second best fruit in the world – white peaches. Plus, I’d catch the tail end of watermelon season and sneak in as much NOKA chocolate as possible before slipping back into hibernation with a tummy full of heaven and some lovely new winter boots on my feet.

As long as I'm not trying to ride the pig's wings to instant stardom

As students at that music conservatory that I love to mock, we never talked about its reputation. We all knew about it- we knew it, the faculty knew it, U.S. News and World Report knew it. But we never felt the need to say it aloud. Of course, it could have had something to with having a deep-rooted sense that if you’re not a child prodigy performing at Carnegie Hall, you’re still not good enough. Or the implicit social rule that serious, cynical artists must reject anything so simple as school spirit. But mostly, it was because talking about it would’ve made us the equivalent to the kid in school that is almost cool, but never gets there because she is trying too hard to prove it.

Now that I’ve been in my current program for the summer term and have been through orientation and the first week of the fall semester, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard in the most explicit of terms that we are in the BEST ADVERTISING PROGRAM IN THE COUNTRY. And I’m beginning to have to resist the urge to gasp dramatically each time yet another faculty member says it and say, “What? OMG. I had no. idea. Why didn’t anyone say so?”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m Texan, I’m proud and I will HOOK ‘EM until the day I die. But being proud of your state and your football team is one thing. You know that none of that actually makes you better than anyone else.

And I am remarkably thankful to be in this program and I fully agree that it really is an extremely comprehensive and solid program with relevant classes where people are actually very nice and down-to-earth. I know that they remind us of the reputation over and over again with the hope that it will motivate us to do well. But please. Give us a little credit. I mean, anyone who really does need such educational ego feeding to do well will probably end up as the 55-year-old stuck in a career rut, wondering why the BEST PROGRAM IN THE COUNTRY didn’t catapult him to stardom.

For once, I wish things were a little more like the music conservatory.

Wait, did I really just write that? Was that a pig flying past my window?

But I still wear makeup every time I leave the apartment

I’ve been in Austin for almost 3 months now and I feel pretty good. It’s nice to be in a new city with new people and new crickets. It’s even better to have not one, but TWO HEB stores on the same street that I live.

In fact, sometimes I forget that I’m in Austin because it feels a lot like Dallas when I’m walking around in Whole Foods with all the yuppies. And I’ve seen more Dallas Cowboy shirts than Evil Spurs shirts. But then I’ll see a pair of Birkenstocks or a “Keep Austin Weird” bumper sticker. Or one of my new friends will make some sort of subtle gibe about my shamelessly high maintenance ways. And it brings me right back down to Austin. God bless its crunchy heart. Yes, I said crunchy. Give me a break, I’m from Dallas – even normal feels crunchy to us.

Fortunately, chocolate doesn't have the same effect

Austin Java has a specialty coffee called “Café No Fun” which is actually a decaf espresso with steamed skim milk. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard my drink of choice being referred to as such. I’ve also heard it referred to as “What’s the point?” While I appreciate the cleverness and I’m the first to own up to being a big ol’ no-fun calorie/fat gram counter, I do have an answer to “What’s the point?” I DON’T LIKE HAVING PANIC EPISODES FOR NO REASON AT ALL. And that’s what happens to me when I drink caffeinated coffee.

If I’m going to have a panic episode, then Mother of Pete, it’s going to be for a reason. For a really good reason, such as that something really wonderful is happening. Like when I suddenly realize that I’m in a really good relationship with a really good man. Or when I commit to enrollment at an excellent school with an excellent program with excellent opportunities. Then there was the day that I met my sister-in-law’s entire family right before the wedding, because apparently, my subconscious felt that if my brother wasn’t going to panic on this happy day, then SOMEONE should.

But as fun as it is to write about it, I guarantee you that it is not at all fun when your brain knows that you really should be happy and excited, but the rest of your body is too busy grappling with the sudden onset of claustrophobia, dizziness, shortness of breath, and a racing heartbeat to listen to that damn, rational brain. And it’s even less fun when that damn, rational brain is just as confused as the rest of your body.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t often hear people ask their friends to meet for coffee; conversation; and claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath and dizziness.

In the name of Perfect Teeth and Calorie Free Indulgences, Amen.

An iPod and its shuffling capabilities is a Godsend on long road trips. A road trip to Dallas, for example, means two chances for 3 straight hours of a little gay bar disco shuffled in with a handful of dirty hip-hop dance tossed in with some good head & hair-tossin’ rock mixed in, of course, with A WHOLE LOT of sweet, yummy girl pop.

I am completely aware of how weird (downright scandalous in certain circles) it is for a classically trained violinist to claim girl pop as one of the top 3 greatest loves of her life. But you see, I can still remember the very moment that I first heard Tiffany’s “I think we’re alone now” and experienced the tingling, pure joy of cotton candy for the ear.

And nobody consumes cotton candy because it’s sophisticated. Besides, the dentist doesn’t check your ears.

A taste of stardom always wins

A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned the extent of my childhood shyness.

Which I guess is why I never spoke up about how getting in front of a child’s face during a game of basketball in PE and screaming at her to “BE AGGRESSIVE!!” does not make you an inspirational elementary school PE coach. Or that I didn’t agree that good art was a picture of smiling kids, neatly drawn and colored in with crayon and then outlined with black marker. Or that maybe my short story didn’t need an ending that explained everything so literally. Actually, I might not have spoken up about that because the story (with the added literal ending) won the city short story contest and I GOT TO BE ON TV! I was shy, not humble.

Shoutout to The One Who is MOVING TO AUSTIN!!

Congratulations to Supergirl who has landed a fantastic job as a meeting planner here in Austin and who gets to work at THE APPLE INC. CAMPUS! Supergirl, you absolutely deserve this and I’m more excited for you and ok, for me - I never said I’m not just a little selfish- than the time I bought my shiny red patent leather heels. Can’t wait for the lots & lots of drinks! (and do you think you can give me a tour of the Apple campus?)

Conceptual Creativity Hangover

This is what you are experiencing when your brain could be a menu item at KFC and your apartment looks a lot like what your mother used to call “(bebe Me)’s Studio” because bless her heart, she didn’t quite know what to make of this little girl who could blithely exist within 10 feet of a seemingly unorganized explosion of paper, pencils, markers, crayons, glue, scissors and the like that took up an entire corner of the bedroom. (In the grown-up version, there is also a beautiful white macbook precariously balanced on top.)

But this weekend, as I cleaned up the residue of paper scraps, books and dried up glue sticks, while nursing the mouse-clicking induced pain in the tip of my index finger and my throbbing headache from the Last-week-of-class sleep deprivation, it hit me. I really am in the right place at the right time. Right about this time last year, I would wake up every morning with a heartful of reluctance and a stomachful of dread. My brain cells were swiftly withering away, having given up on any opportunities for ideation in ways other than figuring out how to keep my bitchiness at bay as I tried to differently word the same bourgeois platitudes to each unsuspecting client I encountered during each excruciating second of each agonizing 8-hour day.

A year later, I just finished 5 weeks of Creative Strategies and its slew of assignments during which I could easily spend 9 straight hours in flow*, ideating at last, with words and images in my own voice and sense of humor as I slowly began to understand and foster creativity in an even bigger way than looking pretty and sounding funny. Add in the fact that I got to use the topic of teen fiction to finally understand how to do proper academic research and I’d say that I’m looking at something for which it is absolutely worth waking up in the morning. Maybe it’s a result of my efforts and patience, maybe it’s luck. In any case, God is being especially good to me right now and my brain and I are feeling thankful for this blessing of a conceptual creativity hangover. Pain and all.

* defined by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (I know, I know, but it’s somewhat impossible to be a grad student without sounding just a little bookish) as an activity that involves “painful, risky, difficult activities that stretched the person’s capacity and involved an element of novelty and discovery” and “the feeling when things were going well as an almost automatic, effortless, yet highly focused state of consciousness”

What does pink mean?

I've mentioned it a few times so I thought I'd share it.

This, y'all. THIS is bebe Me's Life so far on an 11 x17 surface and the answer to "what does pink mean?"



Who knew?

They are even more mutant than you think

I fell asleep with the TV on and had a dream that I was being killed by a tribe of violent, shrieking men. Right after my head got cut off by a sword, I screamed and jumped out of bed. And then I realized that those violent, shrieking men were now on the TV. With my heart still pounding and my body still shaking in my sequined, dragonfly pajamas, I looked at the TV to see what horrifying, hair-raising movie had encroached upon my slumber.

Only to find that it was THE TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES.

What? I wasn’t scared or anything. I scream and jump out of bed like that all the time.

Taking every opportunity to make my loyalties perfectly clear

Conversation at my advertising campaign group meeting:

“What’s the word we’re looking for to describe this guy?”

“Revolutionary?”

“Individualist?”

“I like the word ‘maverick.’” (me)

General agreement.

“Maybe because I love the Mavs.”

Groans all around.

“You know I like Houston, don’t you?” (the guy from Houston)

“But somehow, describing a nonconformist as a ‘ROCKET’ just doesn’t sound quite as good, does it?” (me)

Gleeful-perhaps obnoxiously gleeful- laughter. (from me. Only me)

Something Smells Delicious

This is what satire looks like when it comes out of the oven perfectly baked.

A Couple of Questions for the Austinites

1. Why is Guadalupe (as in Guadalupe Street) pronounced as [Gwod'-uh-loop] instead of [Wod-ah-loop'-ay] and Manor (as in Manor Street) as [May'-ner] instead of [Mah'-ner]?


2. Why oh why oh WHY are y'all so proud of the slogan, “Keep Austin Weird?”

The Blonde Sheep

Nobody would ever suspect the validity of my biological claims. I absolutely inherited my family’s tongue-in-cheek humor, addiction to Toyota cars, disregard for anything that smells remotely like a “holiday family tradition” a la Hallmark, and a repulsion for Blue Bell ice cream right along with my naturally dark (sigh) hair and eyes. Over the years, I’ve witnessed many people saying, “You must be (bebe Me’s) dad. Nice to meet you,” upon first laying eyes on my father and before he even opens his mouth to speak.

What I did NOT inherit is die-hard, straight-ticket republicanism and a hardwiring for understanding natural sciences and MATH. Recent phone conversation with my father who got sucked into helping me review for a MATH TEST.

ME: (after pulling my hair out for an hour because “factoring” sounded like something I might have learned but now looked like ancient hieroglyphics, only to learn that my father can factor and start spitting out formulas as if he does algebarf homework every day) Do you use these formulas every day?

HIM: No.

ME: Then, HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THAT Y=MX +B???

HIM: I don’t know. I just know.

As if I’d just asked him if he knew which hand was his right one.

How did I come from that?

Just making sure that my brain doesn't get jealous of my heart

Nothing screams “STUDENT HERE!” louder than reading on the cardio machines at the gym while making notes in the margins with a pencil. And a stack of more books and journal readings on the floor next to you while you engage in a new kind of speed interval workout in which your recovery intervals are actually recovery/note making intervals.

My fellow gym members’ ears must be throbbing.

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.