It’s no secret that when I was living in Austin, I missed Dallas the way I’d miss a vital organ. A vital organ AND a best friend. Some days, just to fill the void in my heart, I’d listen to podcasts from Dallas radio shows that I didn’t even like. And then there were the little things, like changing my car registration to Travis County, that brought a surprising rush of totally embarrassing tears to my eyes.
Which is why I fully expected an embarrassingly emotional day when I moved back here to Glorious Fake Blonde City. I’d pictured it all in slow motion, set to a song like Chris Daughtry’s Home - the long drive back would be filled with tears and maybe a big dramatic moment where I’d forget all about the steering wheel and throw my arms open and put my hands on my heart.
But when that day finally arrived, and I drove those three hours from Austin to Dallas, there was no crying and no clutching of the heart. Because my mind was completely consumed with only three things:
1.If I change lanes now, will there be enough room behind me for the U-haul truck and my parents’ SUV to change too without causing a 9-car pileup?
2.But if I don’t change lanes now, my friends who are helping me unload will leave and I’ll have to spend an hour on the other end of my brother’s murderous looks that clearly say, “I did not get a degree to work as a heavy furniture mover and WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY THINGS?”
and of course:
3.What’s going to be the best way to clean the floors at my new apartment? (well what did you expect a certified germaphobe to think about?)
So then I thought the embarrassing moment would come while I was unpacking. But it turns out that having a crew of loved ones (God bless them) helping me unpack means that I spend all my time saying, “that goes over here,” “don’t put that THERE,” and “you’re using WHAT to clean wha-?? Step away, just let me do that!” Well, then I was SURE that I’d really feel it as soon as everyone left and I was truly alone in my new place. But instead, when I was on the stepladder, filling up my storage closet or on my hands and knees, scrubbing baseboards, I found myself thinking about other things. Like how I’d kind of miss HEB Stores, Amy’s Ice Cream, and busloads of die-hard fans heading to Longhorn football games on hot, fall Saturdays. Even more often, I was thinking – ok, panicking - about how I now had a higher rent but did NOT have, you know, a JOB. And for some reason, that week, my portfolio was getting a lot of positive feedback from agencies in New York. So when one of my art directors, who was hustling in New York that week, texted me to ask me AGAIN why I won’t consider moving to New York, I’ll admit that for a fraction of a second, I thought, yeah, why is that again?
Luckily, the answer came in loud and clear last Saturday night at the Red, White & Blue Festival at the lake - and not just because my hair, which in Austin would have fallen completely flat by then, still held some curl. But also because as I sat, covered in sticky insect repellent from fake blonde head to sparkly flip-flopped foot, watching fireworks on a blanket 10 feet from the lake and surrounded by gay men, I finally felt it. For the first time since I’d been back, my heart said, I’m home. No embarrassing tears, no dramatic gestures. I’m not saying that I will never be at home somewhere else. I know there are other things, other people, even other cities that can change what makes life feel complete. But right now, right at this very moment, I am home.
6/12/2009
5/25/2009
yes
It’s been a little while since I’ve been sappy on this site. But this, being the beginning of life as a grad school survivor, seems like a good time to spout a little saccharin.
The last time I visited my parents, I’d just gotten back from a week of hustling my name and my work to a handful of industry professionals. And their responses were enough to get me to look back again at the last two excruciating years - the gut-punching months of creative pain; the near-death moments of business math ; the bleak homework-fraught weekends and all those onsets of soul-encompassing panic.
Last year, at this time, the only redeeming thought I could draw from all of this was: “Sometimes it just sucks. And I still look ugly when I cry.” What I didn’t write on that day was that I’d spent several weeks working on that post because I'd really, really wanted to tell y’all that I’d come away with some small piece of salvation that made all the pain of that semester worth it. But I couldn’t do it. At least not with any shred of authenticity.
Which is why, this year, I let myself feel encouraged when all of those industry professionals, including the one at this agency, told me that they liked my work - that my work is smart, funny and up to par.
Then, one evening during that visit with my parents, my father asked me, “So you’re almost done with school. Are you glad you did it?” And I looked at him - the man whose emotional and financial support never wavered despite the night I called to wish him a happy anniversary only to end up sobbing and gulping that I “h-h-hated” school, despite the fact that I spent an entire summer telling him that degrees were overrated and maybe I just wouldn’t get one after all – and I answered with a genuine “yes.”
And now, six weeks later, I can still say, “Yes.” Not only because of the things that the professionals said. Not only because of what my teachers (even this teacher) said. Not only because I almost cried when another girl in my program told me that she looks to my advertising writing (mine!) for inspiration. I can say it because at least right now, today, I believe what they say. And I believe that I’ve come a long way and that even though the road ahead will beat down on my soul again, I believe that if I want to badly enough, I can keep going further.
And I believe that the last two years had something to do with that.
The last time I visited my parents, I’d just gotten back from a week of hustling my name and my work to a handful of industry professionals. And their responses were enough to get me to look back again at the last two excruciating years - the gut-punching months of creative pain; the near-death moments of business math ; the bleak homework-fraught weekends and all those onsets of soul-encompassing panic.
Last year, at this time, the only redeeming thought I could draw from all of this was: “Sometimes it just sucks. And I still look ugly when I cry.” What I didn’t write on that day was that I’d spent several weeks working on that post because I'd really, really wanted to tell y’all that I’d come away with some small piece of salvation that made all the pain of that semester worth it. But I couldn’t do it. At least not with any shred of authenticity.
Which is why, this year, I let myself feel encouraged when all of those industry professionals, including the one at this agency, told me that they liked my work - that my work is smart, funny and up to par.
Then, one evening during that visit with my parents, my father asked me, “So you’re almost done with school. Are you glad you did it?” And I looked at him - the man whose emotional and financial support never wavered despite the night I called to wish him a happy anniversary only to end up sobbing and gulping that I “h-h-hated” school, despite the fact that I spent an entire summer telling him that degrees were overrated and maybe I just wouldn’t get one after all – and I answered with a genuine “yes.”
And now, six weeks later, I can still say, “Yes.” Not only because of the things that the professionals said. Not only because of what my teachers (even this teacher) said. Not only because I almost cried when another girl in my program told me that she looks to my advertising writing (mine!) for inspiration. I can say it because at least right now, today, I believe what they say. And I believe that I’ve come a long way and that even though the road ahead will beat down on my soul again, I believe that if I want to badly enough, I can keep going further.
And I believe that the last two years had something to do with that.
BAGEL: CREAM CHEESE:: MAN: __________ (you finish it because, guess what y’all? I never have to take another GRE again!)
Right about the time I wrote the last post on here, my last semester of grad school suddenly turned from spending weekends gallivanting around downtown (and spending weekdays planning said gallivanting) to a mad, mad blur of headline writing, PhotoShop fumbling, InDesign layouts, screaming at iWeb, stalking industry contacts, and a few token panic episodes. I had one foot in Austin and school and the other foot in Dallas and job networking. And straddling 180 miles of Texas country, it turns out, turns me into an even bigger ditz than the one I was that time I stood in front of the door to the stairwell, wondering why in the hell I couldn’t find the elevator down button.
Which means that I’ve spent the last two months on an extended, two-city ditz-crime spree. There was the day, for example, that I decided to stop by Einstein Bagels to pick up some cream cheese. It wasn’t the shop that I usually go to, but they’re all about the same, right? So you can imagine my shock to find that there were no cream cheese coolers in this one.
But I’d come to Einstein’s to get some cream cheese and I WAS GOING TO GET SOME CREAM CHEESE. So I went up to the counter to get it there.
Him: How can I help you?
Me: (brightly, of course) Hi, I’m just looking for the cream cheese.
Pause as man looks at me for a long time. So long that I start wondering if I have spinach AND lipstick on my front teeth.
Him: (totally straight-faced) We don’t have cream cheese.
The voice inside of my head: AN EINSTEIN’S BAGELS? WITHOUT CREAM CHEESE? Where do I call to get THIS taken care of? This is like a butterfly without wings, a car without wheels, a man without his-
Him: Now, there’s a bagel place next door. They probably have cream cheese.
(Which is when the God-given ability to evaluate and deduce that got me into graduate school finally kicked in. I looked at the food they were serving. Green beans? I looked at the menu. Rotisserie Chicken? I looked at the guy’s uniform. Boston Mar-)
I gasp and put both hands over my mouth.
Me: (like a genius) I walked into Boston Market!
And then the entire restaurant got completely silent and the diners watched in wonder while the universe pushed the slow-motion button and I skulked right out of Boston Market to go next door.
And that, y’all, was just one of the many, many events that could’ve ended with the graduate school police handcuffing me, throwing me into a big yellow school bus and putting me on trial for STILL TRYING TO ACT LIKE SHE BELONGS IN GRADUATE SCHOOL.
Which means that I’ve spent the last two months on an extended, two-city ditz-crime spree. There was the day, for example, that I decided to stop by Einstein Bagels to pick up some cream cheese. It wasn’t the shop that I usually go to, but they’re all about the same, right? So you can imagine my shock to find that there were no cream cheese coolers in this one.
But I’d come to Einstein’s to get some cream cheese and I WAS GOING TO GET SOME CREAM CHEESE. So I went up to the counter to get it there.
Him: How can I help you?
Me: (brightly, of course) Hi, I’m just looking for the cream cheese.
Pause as man looks at me for a long time. So long that I start wondering if I have spinach AND lipstick on my front teeth.
Him: (totally straight-faced) We don’t have cream cheese.
The voice inside of my head: AN EINSTEIN’S BAGELS? WITHOUT CREAM CHEESE? Where do I call to get THIS taken care of? This is like a butterfly without wings, a car without wheels, a man without his-
Him: Now, there’s a bagel place next door. They probably have cream cheese.
(Which is when the God-given ability to evaluate and deduce that got me into graduate school finally kicked in. I looked at the food they were serving. Green beans? I looked at the menu. Rotisserie Chicken? I looked at the guy’s uniform. Boston Mar-)
I gasp and put both hands over my mouth.
Me: (like a genius) I walked into Boston Market!
And then the entire restaurant got completely silent and the diners watched in wonder while the universe pushed the slow-motion button and I skulked right out of Boston Market to go next door.
And that, y’all, was just one of the many, many events that could’ve ended with the graduate school police handcuffing me, throwing me into a big yellow school bus and putting me on trial for STILL TRYING TO ACT LIKE SHE BELONGS IN GRADUATE SCHOOL.
2/23/2009
The way to my mother’s heart is through the cacao
Last Christmas morning, as I unwrapped a 10 oz. box of GODIVA chocolate and a simple, silver framed heart with the message, “Break the rules or you’ll miss all the fun,” I squealed with delight and my mother’s jaw dropped.
“Oh my gosh. And that box is ALL DARK CHOCOLATE.”
“Well, of course. I only eat dark chocolate.”
“Yes, I know that. I just can’t believe he knows you so well that he could give you such a thoughtful, personal gift.”
“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Mom? You’re not the only one who buys me fine chocolate.”
A few days later, as we passed by all of the GODIVA gift boxes at Macy's, she couldn’t resist checking out the current chocolatier market prices (since you know, she usually sticks to buying this). And when she turned back around to look at me, I could see the change in her face.
It’s a very special day when your mother realizes that your gay boyfriend is more than just a fling.
“Oh my gosh. And that box is ALL DARK CHOCOLATE.”
“Well, of course. I only eat dark chocolate.”
“Yes, I know that. I just can’t believe he knows you so well that he could give you such a thoughtful, personal gift.”
“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Mom? You’re not the only one who buys me fine chocolate.”
A few days later, as we passed by all of the GODIVA gift boxes at Macy's, she couldn’t resist checking out the current chocolatier market prices (since you know, she usually sticks to buying this). And when she turned back around to look at me, I could see the change in her face.
It’s a very special day when your mother realizes that your gay boyfriend is more than just a fling.
And even if the bitches did catch up to me, he promised that he would throw on his pumps, drive all the way down to Austin and kick some serious ass
Email exchange last Friday between me and my gay boyfriend as we discussed my going to a gay bar that night to celebrate Mardi Gras:
But my question is what do the pre-op trannies flash to get beads? And as a straight, small-boobed girl, will I be able to get any beads?
If they won’t give you any beads, then just take some off the bitches’ necks! Then run as fast as possible.
2/11/2009
Damn, does this mean I'll NEVER be Britney?
Recently said to me by a school friend (on behalf of a handful of friends I’ve known for almost 2 years now):
Not bad. It takes some people three years to finally figure that out.
You're NEVER going to tell us, are you? No matter how hard we try, you’re never going to tell us about your secret life with your secret boyfriends and your secret weekends.
Not bad. It takes some people three years to finally figure that out.
1/21/2009
Reeking of Sweet
Yesterday, as I walked down Guadalupe Street and wished for the 639th time that I could roll a great big stick of 100-prescription-strength deodorant over the entire street, I braced myself for the usual waves of revulsion that pulse through my soul at the start of every new semester - one hundred and sixteen days of endless academic drudgery.
But as I bravely put one foot in front of another, instead of wanting to catch a plane to a 16-week vacation on a beach with white sand and turquoise water, I realized that I felt perfectly fine right there on that stinky street. In fact, I felt extremely thankful. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was on my way to watch the presidential inauguration of a man who I believe can lead a nation of people who are making great strides to rise above intolerance. I was also on my way to start my very last semester as a girl who didn’t always believe in her own ability to actually earn a Master of Arts – a degree that is now a short four months away. Guadalupe never smelled so sweet.
But as I bravely put one foot in front of another, instead of wanting to catch a plane to a 16-week vacation on a beach with white sand and turquoise water, I realized that I felt perfectly fine right there on that stinky street. In fact, I felt extremely thankful. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was on my way to watch the presidential inauguration of a man who I believe can lead a nation of people who are making great strides to rise above intolerance. I was also on my way to start my very last semester as a girl who didn’t always believe in her own ability to actually earn a Master of Arts – a degree that is now a short four months away. Guadalupe never smelled so sweet.
12/26/2008
But in any other situation, OF COURSE I'd write two paragraphs about the cowboy hats
Recently, I had to get a letter of recommendation from a faculty member. I wanted to ask my writing teacher (who was also my creative advertising teacher last semester) not only because she’s a writer, but also because I was pretty sure she’d write something a little more specific than “bebe Me is a fine student in a fine program.” Of course this is also the teacher who will still look at fifty of my taglines and approve ONE of them. With reservation. Fortunately, she seems to genuinely like some of my other writing – most recently, a humorous essay that she assigned and that I wrote in the style of this blog. Oh yes, that would be a four-paged, single-spaced essay of COTTON CANDY FOR THE BRAIN. But it was her response to my cotton candy for the brain that gave me the courage to ask her to recommend me as someone who could maybe one day have a scintilla of potential to write for advertising.
And the Gods of Advertising must have been looking out for me because she was happy to write one for me. My feeling that she’d write a thoughtful letter was confirmed when she asked me to write two paragraphs for her: one about my greatest strength and one about my greatest accomplishment. Since owning two cowboy hats with attachable tiaras probably doesn’t count as a strength or an accomplishment in this situation, I sat down at my blank laptop screen and tried to figure out my greatest strength.
I’d answered this questions plenty of times for job interviews so I had a short (very short) list of things I usually said: annoying optimism, the ability to see the “big picture,” the ability to see many possibilities for every problem and that I can write pretty well. But as I considered all of my options, I realized that this past year had quite possibly killed all of my strengths and their little dogs too. All I could think about was last spring, when I told everyone that it would probably be best for me and all of my creative partners if I died before critique because I couldn’t think of any more possibilities to solve the problems in our campaigns, because I didn't seem to have even one smart headline coming from wherever it is that any of my mediocre headline writing comes from and because any future for me in the “big picture” of advertising was about as real as a three-headed dragon.
And for a minute or so, I felt a bit sad. But then, like any good eternal optimist, I remembered that this was a different semester and a fresh beginning. Surely, something had changed for the better. And then it hit me - I now thought that any future for me in advertising was about as real as a one-headed dragon. And everybody knows that a one-headed dragon is way more realistic than a three-headed one. And maybe the next semester, it would be a green dragon instead of a spotted teal one. Glorious! So, feeling relieved and much more like myself again, I wrote her a paragraph about my optimism.
It must’ve been believable because my teacher really did write a lovely letter for me. And on the last day of class, when she wished us luck on our careers as advertising copywriters, I’m sure it was pure coincidence that she looked straight at me when she added, “or a career as another kind of writer.” I’m absolutely sure of it. Because I am an unrelenting optimist. Either that or an extremely good blonde. And bloody hell, I’m damn proud to be both.
And the Gods of Advertising must have been looking out for me because she was happy to write one for me. My feeling that she’d write a thoughtful letter was confirmed when she asked me to write two paragraphs for her: one about my greatest strength and one about my greatest accomplishment. Since owning two cowboy hats with attachable tiaras probably doesn’t count as a strength or an accomplishment in this situation, I sat down at my blank laptop screen and tried to figure out my greatest strength.
I’d answered this questions plenty of times for job interviews so I had a short (very short) list of things I usually said: annoying optimism, the ability to see the “big picture,” the ability to see many possibilities for every problem and that I can write pretty well. But as I considered all of my options, I realized that this past year had quite possibly killed all of my strengths and their little dogs too. All I could think about was last spring, when I told everyone that it would probably be best for me and all of my creative partners if I died before critique because I couldn’t think of any more possibilities to solve the problems in our campaigns, because I didn't seem to have even one smart headline coming from wherever it is that any of my mediocre headline writing comes from and because any future for me in the “big picture” of advertising was about as real as a three-headed dragon.
And for a minute or so, I felt a bit sad. But then, like any good eternal optimist, I remembered that this was a different semester and a fresh beginning. Surely, something had changed for the better. And then it hit me - I now thought that any future for me in advertising was about as real as a one-headed dragon. And everybody knows that a one-headed dragon is way more realistic than a three-headed one. And maybe the next semester, it would be a green dragon instead of a spotted teal one. Glorious! So, feeling relieved and much more like myself again, I wrote her a paragraph about my optimism.
It must’ve been believable because my teacher really did write a lovely letter for me. And on the last day of class, when she wished us luck on our careers as advertising copywriters, I’m sure it was pure coincidence that she looked straight at me when she added, “or a career as another kind of writer.” I’m absolutely sure of it. Because I am an unrelenting optimist. Either that or an extremely good blonde. And bloody hell, I’m damn proud to be both.
12/19/2008
Quote of the week
I kind of like my boobs.
-My art director (different one from this art director)
Ok, ok. So it was the end of a loooong week before final critique during which we all spend too many stressed hours in the creative lab, saying and doing stupid things. Also, she wasn't actually talking about HER boobs so much as the ones she implied in one of her executions. But how were we supposed to know that?
12/07/2008
P.S.
Here I am pursuing a future of writing in some sort of professional capacity and the only adult books that have influenced my life in a significant way are chick lit and an out-of-print self-help book. Clearly, I need to take myself more seriously. It’s time to start reading and writing about things that will change people’s lives. Very, very serious things.
So I’m going to start now with a thought-provoking piece on a very current event, that event being the celebration of National Cotton Candy Day:
Serious. I used the word centrifugal.
So I’m going to start now with a thought-provoking piece on a very current event, that event being the celebration of National Cotton Candy Day:
It all began in the 1400s when Italians discovered that they could make a fantastic dessert by melting sugar and spinning it with a fork. Over the next four years, spun sugar emerged as a popular dessert for very rich people. In 1899, a couple of guys from Tennessee decided it was about time that all the regular people be able to enjoy a little sugar. So they invented a big machine that would use centrifugal force to turn sugar, flavoring and coloring into what they decided to call Fairy Floss. In 1904, the guys took Fairy Floss to the St. Louis World Fair and the sugary star was born. In 1920, someone decided to start calling it cotton candy. Cotton candy comes in pink, blue, rainbow and probably a lot of other colors and if you were to eat it for every meal, every day, you’d have a lot of cavities.
Serious. I used the word centrifugal.
The last time I'll post an assignment from my writing class
A short list of books that have had a significant impact on my life
1. A Light in the Attic (Shel Silverstein)
Oh how I loved this book when I was little – these crazy stories/rhymes made me laugh and laugh and it was my first experience with words that were used not only to tell a story, but also as devices (rhyming, assonance, onomatopoeia, etc.).
2. Ramona the Pest (Beverly Cleary)
This was the first “big book” I read. “Big books” were interesting! Ramona was my girl for years – I was just as frustrated with grown-ups and even though I was more shy and less impulsive than her, I shared some of the same urges to make trouble.
3. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (Judy Blume)
Every girl’s rite of passage! This was only the beginning of my love for stories that center on the inimitable experience of being a girl. But as I read it over and over again as I got older, it also helped me figure out that one of things that makes Judy Blume’s writing so engaging is her ability to use ordinary details to illustrate reality.
4. Jobsmarts for Twentysomethings: A Street-smart Script for Career Success (Bradley Richardson)
When I thought I was going to die because I had no idea how to find a job as a recent graduate with a ridiculous degree, this book gave me the courage to start networking and to feel confident about finding a job I liked and knowing how to act professionally. The language has just enough attitude to speak to twentysomethings, but the content is solid and helpful. Everything this guy said would happen happened. I bought this book for all of my friends and family until it went out of print.
5. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
There is plenty of badly written chick lit out there with appallingly cliché characters and stupid plots (which I admit to reading anyway), but Confessions of a Shopaholic is not one of them. Even if the content seems fluffy (shopping), the characters have depth and the writing is never awkward. Either that or I just really identify with British, self-deprecating humor.
6. Sloppy Firsts (Megan McCafferty)
I am possibly the oldest teen fiction enthusiast on this Earth – well, besides the authors who write it. When I was a teen, I read serious adult books (like Chaim Potok novels or biographies about classical music composers), but as an adult, I started reading young adult novels because I love the concept of self-discovery – this thing that teens are doing every day. There is something really invigorating about immersing myself in reading about the painful and exhilarating feelings surrounding it and Megan McCafferty does it best. I vividly remember the first time I read this book because I’d have to keep putting the book down and saying (out loud to myself), “How the hell did she get inside my brain?”
7. Dreamland (Sarah Dessen)
I read this teen novel right at a time where I was grappling with a situation in which a good friend of mine was about to marry her horrible, toxic, abusive boyfriend. I was so frustrated because I just couldn’t understand how someone got to that place. This book offered an interesting perspective from a girl that let herself be abused for a long time. My friend still married the bastard and I still couldn’t reach her, but I felt a little more settled that I understood at least some of the reasons why girls fall prey to that poison.
1. A Light in the Attic (Shel Silverstein)
Oh how I loved this book when I was little – these crazy stories/rhymes made me laugh and laugh and it was my first experience with words that were used not only to tell a story, but also as devices (rhyming, assonance, onomatopoeia, etc.).
2. Ramona the Pest (Beverly Cleary)
This was the first “big book” I read. “Big books” were interesting! Ramona was my girl for years – I was just as frustrated with grown-ups and even though I was more shy and less impulsive than her, I shared some of the same urges to make trouble.
3. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (Judy Blume)
Every girl’s rite of passage! This was only the beginning of my love for stories that center on the inimitable experience of being a girl. But as I read it over and over again as I got older, it also helped me figure out that one of things that makes Judy Blume’s writing so engaging is her ability to use ordinary details to illustrate reality.
4. Jobsmarts for Twentysomethings: A Street-smart Script for Career Success (Bradley Richardson)
When I thought I was going to die because I had no idea how to find a job as a recent graduate with a ridiculous degree, this book gave me the courage to start networking and to feel confident about finding a job I liked and knowing how to act professionally. The language has just enough attitude to speak to twentysomethings, but the content is solid and helpful. Everything this guy said would happen happened. I bought this book for all of my friends and family until it went out of print.
5. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
There is plenty of badly written chick lit out there with appallingly cliché characters and stupid plots (which I admit to reading anyway), but Confessions of a Shopaholic is not one of them. Even if the content seems fluffy (shopping), the characters have depth and the writing is never awkward. Either that or I just really identify with British, self-deprecating humor.
6. Sloppy Firsts (Megan McCafferty)
I am possibly the oldest teen fiction enthusiast on this Earth – well, besides the authors who write it. When I was a teen, I read serious adult books (like Chaim Potok novels or biographies about classical music composers), but as an adult, I started reading young adult novels because I love the concept of self-discovery – this thing that teens are doing every day. There is something really invigorating about immersing myself in reading about the painful and exhilarating feelings surrounding it and Megan McCafferty does it best. I vividly remember the first time I read this book because I’d have to keep putting the book down and saying (out loud to myself), “How the hell did she get inside my brain?”
7. Dreamland (Sarah Dessen)
I read this teen novel right at a time where I was grappling with a situation in which a good friend of mine was about to marry her horrible, toxic, abusive boyfriend. I was so frustrated because I just couldn’t understand how someone got to that place. This book offered an interesting perspective from a girl that let herself be abused for a long time. My friend still married the bastard and I still couldn’t reach her, but I felt a little more settled that I understood at least some of the reasons why girls fall prey to that poison.
12/06/2008
I’d pay with cash, but then I wouldn’t get my advantage miles
It’s that time of the semester. When I have so much to do that the more I try to motivate myself to do it, the more I want to sit in front of the TV and watch Frasier reruns. The time when my usual love of knowing that there is not just one answer is replaced by my wanting to scream at my creative professors, “IS THIS IDEA RIGHT OR WRONG? I HAVE A DEADLINE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!” And it’s also the time when I start going to a lot of print shops. I wish I could say that I’m cool enough to go to the funkier, less-known, independent print shops. But once an art director sends me a file that’s ready to print, I will immediately go to the nearest shop that’s open at the time so that I can print and mount my ads as soon as possible. Just in case on the day before critique, the universe decides to curse my hands with an uncontrollable shake as I try to cut straight, clean lines with that damn X-ACTO knife.
So I often find myself at a 24-hour Fed-ex Kinko’s. Which is all fine and good until it’s time to pay. Because the credit card machines there don’t let you sign outside of the box. Every single time, it makes me start over. The first time the girl behind the counter said matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t like it when you go outside the box,” I felt so stifled by the bloody box and the girl’s bored expression that I almost threw down the stylus so that I could run outside into the parking lot and tell all the people to RUN FOR IT OR YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF THE DAMN BOX!
I still get that urge every time I’m there. And the urge is even stronger when I’ve spent the last couple of weeks biting my tongue in front of professors and worrying about eleventh-hour hand tremors. But I don’t ever give in because the last thing I need right now is for a bevy of very controlled, meticulous Kinko’s security officers to drag me into a back room, subdue me and then flag my name on all of their records: WATCH OUT FOR THIS CUSTOMER. CANNOT CONTROL HER OWN SIGNATURE.
So I often find myself at a 24-hour Fed-ex Kinko’s. Which is all fine and good until it’s time to pay. Because the credit card machines there don’t let you sign outside of the box. Every single time, it makes me start over. The first time the girl behind the counter said matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t like it when you go outside the box,” I felt so stifled by the bloody box and the girl’s bored expression that I almost threw down the stylus so that I could run outside into the parking lot and tell all the people to RUN FOR IT OR YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF THE DAMN BOX!
I still get that urge every time I’m there. And the urge is even stronger when I’ve spent the last couple of weeks biting my tongue in front of professors and worrying about eleventh-hour hand tremors. But I don’t ever give in because the last thing I need right now is for a bevy of very controlled, meticulous Kinko’s security officers to drag me into a back room, subdue me and then flag my name on all of their records: WATCH OUT FOR THIS CUSTOMER. CANNOT CONTROL HER OWN SIGNATURE.
12/05/2008
My cousins can beat up your cousins
My mother’s oldest sister had five kids. They are a loud, rowdy, affectionate family who gives a group hug the same way a St. Bernard accidentally knocks you down when it’s just trying to say hello. And just as you’ve managed to get yourself off the ground, they’ll finish it off with an enthusiastic booty smack and a wholehearted “BOOYAH!”
Last month, I spent a week in Canada with my five cousins, my uncle, my grandmother, my parents and other various members of my family because on November 3rd, my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt, passed away unexpectedly. In the days following, our family did our best to understand that this lovely lady who meant so many different things to so many different people was no longer just on the other side of an email or a phone call. But even as our hearts ached for the daughter, mother, sister and aunt who loved learning so much that she got three bachelors of science, our smiles persisted. Because how could we NOT smile at the memory of her being so engrossed in reading whatever most recently caught her brain’s attention, that we could sing and dance around her in big purple cow costumes and she’d never even notice? We smiled because when she and her sisters were all starting to leave their small French-Canadian town for “big cities” like, you know, WINNIPEG, my aunt was the one who educated her younger sisters on the difference between a friendly man and a sleazy perv. We smiled because she was endearingly straight-forward and because she was the only one who knew how to smooth over the occasional collisions that occur in an extended family that includes more than a couple strong and opinionated personalities. And we smiled because she loved to smile.
My aunt made me feel special from the time she’d send me hand-sewn nightgowns with my name embroidered across the front every year to the time in my twenties when she made me feel really special and yet totally normal during a time when I was especially worried that my not-so-conservative choices would alienate my entire extended family. Of course, it didn’t. And in the last couple of years, her kids have made a particularly conscious effort to embrace me unconditionally So I smiled and cried as I watched my cousins say their final goodbyes to her resting body at the funeral home. Shoulder to shoulder, arms embracing, crying, laughing, whispering memories, jokes and love – a testament of their mother’s sweet, funny, loving spirit.
And for the rest of the week, I wanted to lift and support my loud, rowdy cousins and uncle. But as usual, they gave me more collective love (and smacks) than I felt I could give back in return. Because they don’t know any other way to live. And oh, how I love them – as much as one little, sometimes prissy, not especially loud-voiced, non-booty-smackin’ person can.
Last month, I spent a week in Canada with my five cousins, my uncle, my grandmother, my parents and other various members of my family because on November 3rd, my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt, passed away unexpectedly. In the days following, our family did our best to understand that this lovely lady who meant so many different things to so many different people was no longer just on the other side of an email or a phone call. But even as our hearts ached for the daughter, mother, sister and aunt who loved learning so much that she got three bachelors of science, our smiles persisted. Because how could we NOT smile at the memory of her being so engrossed in reading whatever most recently caught her brain’s attention, that we could sing and dance around her in big purple cow costumes and she’d never even notice? We smiled because when she and her sisters were all starting to leave their small French-Canadian town for “big cities” like, you know, WINNIPEG, my aunt was the one who educated her younger sisters on the difference between a friendly man and a sleazy perv. We smiled because she was endearingly straight-forward and because she was the only one who knew how to smooth over the occasional collisions that occur in an extended family that includes more than a couple strong and opinionated personalities. And we smiled because she loved to smile.
My aunt made me feel special from the time she’d send me hand-sewn nightgowns with my name embroidered across the front every year to the time in my twenties when she made me feel really special and yet totally normal during a time when I was especially worried that my not-so-conservative choices would alienate my entire extended family. Of course, it didn’t. And in the last couple of years, her kids have made a particularly conscious effort to embrace me unconditionally So I smiled and cried as I watched my cousins say their final goodbyes to her resting body at the funeral home. Shoulder to shoulder, arms embracing, crying, laughing, whispering memories, jokes and love – a testament of their mother’s sweet, funny, loving spirit.
And for the rest of the week, I wanted to lift and support my loud, rowdy cousins and uncle. But as usual, they gave me more collective love (and smacks) than I felt I could give back in return. Because they don’t know any other way to live. And oh, how I love them – as much as one little, sometimes prissy, not especially loud-voiced, non-booty-smackin’ person can.
11/02/2008
Friend quote of the week via email. And just for her, count how many times I can write Ben Folds in a 60-word post.
“I am a Ben Folds evangelist!”*
"...I think I cold live happily on a steady diet of Doritos and his last 4
albums."
-Ben Fold’s most dedicated fan after I told her that I’d just taken my first step onto the Ben Folds bandwagon
*That’s how she wrote it, but what I read was, “I am a BEN FOLDS EVANGELIST!!”
Forgive me, for I know not what I write
Three of the greatest feelings in the world are: stepping into a perfect gold stiletto, biting into a Tamborina NOKA Chocolate truffle. and finally remembering a word that has been taking over your life because it’s been sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue for weeks and refusing to roll off of it.
Yesterday, I almost experienced the last one. I say “almost’ because I had to use the one look reverse dictionary (this, the glorious tool that changed my life this year) in order to “remember” the word “malapropism.” And the reason I was so urgently trying to remember it was because I committed a malapropism right here on this very blog just a few weeks ago*. And ever since I realized the error of my ways and finished cringing and blushing furiously here at my keyboard, I’ve been debating whether or not to correct it or to keep pretending I was being intentionally, but not necessarily skillfully, subversive.
I still haven’t decided whether or not to change it and because I am just THAT crazy, the debate in my head will probably keep raging on until some other ridiculous issue takes over the part of my brain that handles ridiculous issues. But the good news is that because of my idiocy, I almost experienced one of the greatest feelings in the world.
The glass, my friends, is always half full.
*Of course I’m not going to tell you. But if you noticed it too, I’ll tell you if you’re right. Or, if I’m really lucky (because a good, healthy cringe and blush is just what I need sometimes), you’ll discover yet another one that I haven’t even noticed.
Yesterday, I almost experienced the last one. I say “almost’ because I had to use the one look reverse dictionary (this, the glorious tool that changed my life this year) in order to “remember” the word “malapropism.” And the reason I was so urgently trying to remember it was because I committed a malapropism right here on this very blog just a few weeks ago*. And ever since I realized the error of my ways and finished cringing and blushing furiously here at my keyboard, I’ve been debating whether or not to correct it or to keep pretending I was being intentionally, but not necessarily skillfully, subversive.
I still haven’t decided whether or not to change it and because I am just THAT crazy, the debate in my head will probably keep raging on until some other ridiculous issue takes over the part of my brain that handles ridiculous issues. But the good news is that because of my idiocy, I almost experienced one of the greatest feelings in the world.
The glass, my friends, is always half full.
*Of course I’m not going to tell you. But if you noticed it too, I’ll tell you if you’re right. Or, if I’m really lucky (because a good, healthy cringe and blush is just what I need sometimes), you’ll discover yet another one that I haven’t even noticed.
10/25/2008
One of us didn’t grow up in Texas
Recent conversation between me, my friend who's also from Texas and my other friend who went to HS in San Francisco (after we'd decided that it would be really cool to have a “Portfolio Class Prom.” I know, I know, but we have class from 5 – 8 pm. Every idea sounds AWESOME by 6:30):
“We need to get those big, huge flowers with the ribbons flowing down from them to wear on our arms.”
Shocked silence.
“Are you talking about a MUM? Those are for homecoming!”
“And you don’t wear those on your ARM!”
“I don’t know, what’s the difference?”
Sound of jaws dropping.
“HOMECOMING IS IN THE FALL!”
“And it’s about FOOTBALL.”
“Ok, but don’t you wear flowers to prom too?”
“You wear a corsage to prom.”
“Which is in the spring.”
“But they’re still flowers, right?”
“Different flowers. It’s totally different. TOTALLY. DIFFERENT.”
“Alright, THAT then. We need to get that. Geez, who KNOWS shit like this?”
Peals of mad, gasp-filled laughter due to visions of showing up to prom with plastic megaphones and ribbons with your name written on them in glitter.
“We need to get those big, huge flowers with the ribbons flowing down from them to wear on our arms.”
Shocked silence.
“Are you talking about a MUM? Those are for homecoming!”
“And you don’t wear those on your ARM!”
“I don’t know, what’s the difference?”
Sound of jaws dropping.
“HOMECOMING IS IN THE FALL!”
“And it’s about FOOTBALL.”
“Ok, but don’t you wear flowers to prom too?”
“You wear a corsage to prom.”
“Which is in the spring.”
“But they’re still flowers, right?”
“Different flowers. It’s totally different. TOTALLY. DIFFERENT.”
“Alright, THAT then. We need to get that. Geez, who KNOWS shit like this?”
Peals of mad, gasp-filled laughter due to visions of showing up to prom with plastic megaphones and ribbons with your name written on them in glitter.
10/16/2008
I write haikus now
But only when it's another in-class writing assignment (this time, the topic being rice cakes):
Add your own toppings
Nutella, peanut butter
Diet food my ass
Because three "yays" out of an entire page of "nays" is better than seeing my entire future crumple in front of my eyes
A typical in-class critique for me means that I’ve brought in taglines and headlines, of which 99% I feel are crap; 98% on a good day. Last week, it was 102%. It was also the day my professor decided to “help me out” by reading every one of those crap lines aloud to get a “yay” or “nay” from the class.
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
And I never even touched a slot machine
Things I discovered during my recent trip to Las Vegas:
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
10/15/2008
But then again, a glove would cover up all my big, shiny rings
When my friends at school are standing outside tapping the ashes from their cigarettes after another coffee-filled all-nighter and calling out, “Hey Dallas Princess!” or “You! Healthy little fart, yes you,” I know they are talking to me. I know this because they are the ones who took me to a gritty bar downtown and then wanted to crawl into the toilets and die of embarrassment when I vehemently demanded to know WHERE THE SOAP WAS. These are the friends who regularly get my chirpy text messages at 5 A.M. on my way to the gym. And by some inexplicable act of God, despite all of this, they have not yet banished me from their regular ash-tapping caucuses in the courtyard between classes.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
10/11/2008
When you're so immersed in a semester that you start posting schoolwork on your blog
My response to a recent in-class writing assignment loosely based on 55 flash fiction. Our only rules were that it be 55 words, be about death or love and written in 10 minutes:
Autumn is so ugly. Beautiful, blazing New England fall foliage, whatever. Those brilliant reds and oranges say, "dying." Leaves are dying, summer is dying, strappy shoe season is dying. Boutiques start bringing out brown and beige and brownish beige. But most importantly, autumn is the harbinger of a new school year. Which means I'm dying.
9/24/2008
Quote of the Week
If I ever decided to get married for some reason, fuck the dress. I'm getting the mattress.
-My art director on Vera Wang mattresses
9/10/2008
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.
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.
8/26/2008
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.
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.
8/24/2008
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.
“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.
8/17/2008
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.
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.)
8/05/2008
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.
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.
7/29/2008
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:
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.
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.
7/24/2008
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:
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.
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.
7/20/2008
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
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 overwhelmingfear 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.
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
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.
7/10/2008
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.
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.
7/09/2008
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?
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?
7/07/2008
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
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?
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?
7/01/2008
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.
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.
6/28/2008
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.
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.
6/27/2008
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.
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.
6/26/2008
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.
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:
Wait, does this mean that I’m still not up off the ground?
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?
3/20/2008
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.
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.
3/14/2008
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 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.
2/29/2008
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.
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.
2/08/2008
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.
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.
1/15/2008
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.
It’s very sticky in here.
1/02/2008
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.
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.
12/29/2007
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.
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.
12/14/2007
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.
Semester done.
Stress and panic about the spring semester already started.
12/03/2007
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?
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?
11/14/2007
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.
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.
11/11/2007
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…
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…
10/17/2007
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.
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.
10/16/2007
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.”
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.”
10/06/2007
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.
Yeah, so maybe I'm just a little bitter.
10/04/2007
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.
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.
9/25/2007
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
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
9/16/2007
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
Email exchange:
Verbal Exchange #2:
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…
9/08/2007
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
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 bekids FUTURE BITOGED BASTARDS.
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
9/02/2007
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!
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.
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?
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?
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