1. Why is Guadalupe (as in Guadalupe Street) pronounced as [Gwod'-uh-loop] instead of [Wod-ah-loop'-ay] and Manor (as in Manor Street) as [May'-ner] instead of [Mah'-ner]?
2. Why oh why oh WHY are y'all so proud of the slogan, “Keep Austin Weird?”
7/31/2007
The Blonde Sheep
Nobody would ever suspect the validity of my biological claims. I absolutely inherited my family’s tongue-in-cheek humor, addiction to Toyota cars, disregard for anything that smells remotely like a “holiday family tradition” a la Hallmark, and a repulsion for Blue Bell ice cream right along with my naturally dark (sigh) hair and eyes. Over the years, I’ve witnessed many people saying, “You must be (bebe Me’s) dad. Nice to meet you,” upon first laying eyes on my father and before he even opens his mouth to speak.
What I did NOT inherit is die-hard, straight-ticket republicanism and a hardwiring for understanding natural sciences and MATH. Recent phone conversation with my father who got sucked into helping me review for a MATH TEST.
ME: (after pulling my hair out for an hour because “factoring” sounded like something I might have learned but now looked like ancient hieroglyphics, only to learn that my father can factor and start spitting out formulas as if he does algebarf homework every day) Do you use these formulas every day?
HIM: No.
ME: Then, HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THAT Y=MX +B???
HIM: I don’t know. I just know.
As if I’d just asked him if he knew which hand was his right one.
How did I come from that?
What I did NOT inherit is die-hard, straight-ticket republicanism and a hardwiring for understanding natural sciences and MATH. Recent phone conversation with my father who got sucked into helping me review for a MATH TEST.
ME: (after pulling my hair out for an hour because “factoring” sounded like something I might have learned but now looked like ancient hieroglyphics, only to learn that my father can factor and start spitting out formulas as if he does algebarf homework every day) Do you use these formulas every day?
HIM: No.
ME: Then, HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THAT Y=MX +B???
HIM: I don’t know. I just know.
As if I’d just asked him if he knew which hand was his right one.
How did I come from that?
7/27/2007
Just making sure that my brain doesn't get jealous of my heart
Nothing screams “STUDENT HERE!” louder than reading on the cardio machines at the gym while making notes in the margins with a pencil. And a stack of more books and journal readings on the floor next to you while you engage in a new kind of speed interval workout in which your recovery intervals are actually recovery/note making intervals.
My fellow gym members’ ears must be throbbing.
My fellow gym members’ ears must be throbbing.
7/25/2007
A Math Test. Otherwise known as “That which will keep me grounded in the real world”
With this post, I’m about to break 2 of my own cardinal rules:
1. Never ever use my blog to rant over things in my life about which nobody else gives a damn.
2. Never throw my educational pedigree around as if it means that I’m all that. It’s bad form and it certainly DOES NOT mean that I’m all that – believe me, nobody knows that better than I do. And furthermore, once again: nobody gives a damn.
If I were the one reading this blog post about someone else, I’d probably want to stop reading here.
But if you are still reading, congratulations – the truth is that I think you’ll laugh in the end. So here goes. Yesterday, I spent TWO HOURS at the local community college so that I could register for 2 leveling courses that I need in order to officially earn my graduate degree. I’m taking them there because it has been recommended to me as a cheaper and easier route. So I spent two hours in a large, crowded waiting room where they provided several copies of “Popular Science” from 2003 because, you know, I guess the HIGHER EDUCATED types read “the monthly magazine about current science and technology” from FOUR YEARS AGO.
I was waiting to talk with an advisor, but apparently, you must first be screened for academically transmitted diseases. During this screening, I had to confirm that I indeed have a degree even though my transcript does not say in large block letters across the top: WE PROMISE THAT SHE EARNED AN ACCREDITED BACHELOR OF MUSIC DEGREE HERE AT THIS SCHOOL. Forever and a half later, an advisor finally came out from the back and yelled out my name not unlike the way they do at Schlotzky’s when your sandwich is ready. Things started getting better, however, in her office as we chatted about my situation and the classes I wanted to take. That is, until she started flipping through my transcript. “Hmmm. Where’s your math class?”
Which is when I had to explain that we didn’t take math at my school. The fact that the school administration insisted on a mandatory Humanities credit was enough for most performance majors to question the validity of its claim to be an authentic music conservatory. I mean, really. A music conservatory that REQUIRES such a worldy distraction? That kind of progressive thinking is the very thing that threatens the sanctity of the art. (Thankfully, I can honestly say that I was one of those progressive thinkers that did NOT agree)
And that is when I was informed that in order to take any classes at this community college, Texas law requires me to take a math test to ensure that I am CAPABLE of doing college math (up to Algebra II).
Even though I took the GRE and scored perfectly well. Even though, in high school, I was on the honors math track through Algebra II and when I left the honors track, the teacher kept asking me why I wasn’t in honors. Even though in my math-deficient college education, I successfully completed 2 years of Tonal Theory and 1 year of 12-tone atonal theory. And believe me, you don’t get through those classes (matrices anyone?) without an understanding of college-level math.
And here is where I get unbearably snooty (just warning you): I didn't just graduate from college. I graduated with a VERY HIGH GPA and an EXTREMELY DIFFICULT degree from the classical music’s equivalent to an IVY LEAUGE which, I know might sound just a little obscure to most, but can be easily verified with just a little bit of research. I am currently attending what is sometimes referred to as a “public IVY” whose advertising program for which I am enrolled has been consistently ranked in the top 4 (often 1st) programs in the country. And can I mention AGAIN that I took the GREs and in fact scored WELL ABOVE AVERAGE even among the students accepted in my program? And in that big ol’ waiting room, I actually PICKED UP an issue of “Popular Science” instead of staring vapidly into space or talking on the phone to a friend about whose best friend can’t stand whose boyfriend. And TEXAS LAW is telling ME that I can’t take the same damn course as any one of those people unless I take a MATH TEST?
So incensed was I that I called my mom as soon as I got home to say, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!” To which I did receive the much needed mom empathy. But every time she tried to move on and ask me something else like, “How was school today?” I would answer, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!”
PREPOSTEROUS. A school that insists on a mandatory math test. I am an advertising graduate student! I mean, really. A school that requires such an irrelevant distraction? That kind of backwards thinking is the very thing –
Waaiiit. Ok then. Give me a pencil. I have to review for a math test.
1. Never ever use my blog to rant over things in my life about which nobody else gives a damn.
2. Never throw my educational pedigree around as if it means that I’m all that. It’s bad form and it certainly DOES NOT mean that I’m all that – believe me, nobody knows that better than I do. And furthermore, once again: nobody gives a damn.
If I were the one reading this blog post about someone else, I’d probably want to stop reading here.
But if you are still reading, congratulations – the truth is that I think you’ll laugh in the end. So here goes. Yesterday, I spent TWO HOURS at the local community college so that I could register for 2 leveling courses that I need in order to officially earn my graduate degree. I’m taking them there because it has been recommended to me as a cheaper and easier route. So I spent two hours in a large, crowded waiting room where they provided several copies of “Popular Science” from 2003 because, you know, I guess the HIGHER EDUCATED types read “the monthly magazine about current science and technology” from FOUR YEARS AGO.
I was waiting to talk with an advisor, but apparently, you must first be screened for academically transmitted diseases. During this screening, I had to confirm that I indeed have a degree even though my transcript does not say in large block letters across the top: WE PROMISE THAT SHE EARNED AN ACCREDITED BACHELOR OF MUSIC DEGREE HERE AT THIS SCHOOL. Forever and a half later, an advisor finally came out from the back and yelled out my name not unlike the way they do at Schlotzky’s when your sandwich is ready. Things started getting better, however, in her office as we chatted about my situation and the classes I wanted to take. That is, until she started flipping through my transcript. “Hmmm. Where’s your math class?”
Which is when I had to explain that we didn’t take math at my school. The fact that the school administration insisted on a mandatory Humanities credit was enough for most performance majors to question the validity of its claim to be an authentic music conservatory. I mean, really. A music conservatory that REQUIRES such a worldy distraction? That kind of progressive thinking is the very thing that threatens the sanctity of the art. (Thankfully, I can honestly say that I was one of those progressive thinkers that did NOT agree)
And that is when I was informed that in order to take any classes at this community college, Texas law requires me to take a math test to ensure that I am CAPABLE of doing college math (up to Algebra II).
Even though I took the GRE and scored perfectly well. Even though, in high school, I was on the honors math track through Algebra II and when I left the honors track, the teacher kept asking me why I wasn’t in honors. Even though in my math-deficient college education, I successfully completed 2 years of Tonal Theory and 1 year of 12-tone atonal theory. And believe me, you don’t get through those classes (matrices anyone?) without an understanding of college-level math.
And here is where I get unbearably snooty (just warning you): I didn't just graduate from college. I graduated with a VERY HIGH GPA and an EXTREMELY DIFFICULT degree from the classical music’s equivalent to an IVY LEAUGE which, I know might sound just a little obscure to most, but can be easily verified with just a little bit of research. I am currently attending what is sometimes referred to as a “public IVY” whose advertising program for which I am enrolled has been consistently ranked in the top 4 (often 1st) programs in the country. And can I mention AGAIN that I took the GREs and in fact scored WELL ABOVE AVERAGE even among the students accepted in my program? And in that big ol’ waiting room, I actually PICKED UP an issue of “Popular Science” instead of staring vapidly into space or talking on the phone to a friend about whose best friend can’t stand whose boyfriend. And TEXAS LAW is telling ME that I can’t take the same damn course as any one of those people unless I take a MATH TEST?
So incensed was I that I called my mom as soon as I got home to say, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!” To which I did receive the much needed mom empathy. But every time she tried to move on and ask me something else like, “How was school today?” I would answer, “THEY TOLD ME I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST!”
PREPOSTEROUS. A school that insists on a mandatory math test. I am an advertising graduate student! I mean, really. A school that requires such an irrelevant distraction? That kind of backwards thinking is the very thing –
Waaiiit. Ok then. Give me a pencil. I have to review for a math test.
7/23/2007
Plan “C my Dust-free Shoes”
Since moving to Austin and becoming a student with a conservative budget and with wardrobe decisions limited by the fact that I have to walk on a daily basis for several blocks in something other than my workout wear, I’ve begun to worry about certain sections of my Dallas Working Girl Wardrobe - especially the one more commonly known as “going out clothes,” which has been relegated to the deepest depths of my closet where a girl on a budget dares not go too often. Sometimes, in the midst of writing an abstract for my annotated bibliography, my old friend Panic will whisper urgently in my ear until I jump up and run to my closet just to make sure that the pretty tops and dresses haven’t yet collected an inch of dust and a foot of so-last-year. Last weekend, I finally had the opportunity to unearth some of these items (including, of course, the bad-ass 4 in. stiletto heels) in the form of an official new-ad-grad-students-in-Summer-II night out.
I’ve been really happy about how quickly I’ve been able to make a large number of friends within my program at school. So once we decided on the date, I enthusiastically designated myself as the “event coordinator.” Wanting to be completely thorough, I sent out an email with the where, when and how much; a link to The Elephant Room’s website where we’d be starting out; and carpool group details. My carpool group had a total of four people and all four of us made it to the right places at the right time with no problems until we were in the final car ready to go to The Elephant Room – Austin’s own nationally recognized live jazz bar. The car was running and we were all fastened in and totally pumped that it wasn’t pouring rain as was forecasted. And me? Not only were my feet resplendent at last, in shiny patent brilliance, but I was also feeling pretty damn good about pulling this all off so smoothly. And then, the driver put her hand on the gearshift and said, “Ok, now where is this place?”
Complete silence.
“Um, I don’t know. Don’t you?”
“I thought YOU knew.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s on Congress somewhere.”
“Ok, hold on, hold on. I know.” (me)
Collective sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank God. You know. So where is it?”
“No, no. I’m just saying that I know that I’m going to call Jane.* Maybe she knows.”
Now you may be thinking that this brilliant resourcefulness had something to do with a sense of responsibility as the “event coordinator.” In fact, it had nothing to do with that. But it had everything to do with the black patent leather on my feet. Because a real Dallas Girl always has a SOLID Plan B** to get her shoes out on the dance floor.
*Not her real name.
**Ok, so she didn’t know either. But you see, the SOLID Plan B always has a SOLID Plan C which consists of driving around downtown until someone sees it.
I’ve been really happy about how quickly I’ve been able to make a large number of friends within my program at school. So once we decided on the date, I enthusiastically designated myself as the “event coordinator.” Wanting to be completely thorough, I sent out an email with the where, when and how much; a link to The Elephant Room’s website where we’d be starting out; and carpool group details. My carpool group had a total of four people and all four of us made it to the right places at the right time with no problems until we were in the final car ready to go to The Elephant Room – Austin’s own nationally recognized live jazz bar. The car was running and we were all fastened in and totally pumped that it wasn’t pouring rain as was forecasted. And me? Not only were my feet resplendent at last, in shiny patent brilliance, but I was also feeling pretty damn good about pulling this all off so smoothly. And then, the driver put her hand on the gearshift and said, “Ok, now where is this place?”
Complete silence.
“Um, I don’t know. Don’t you?”
“I thought YOU knew.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s on Congress somewhere.”
“Ok, hold on, hold on. I know.” (me)
Collective sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank God. You know. So where is it?”
“No, no. I’m just saying that I know that I’m going to call Jane.* Maybe she knows.”
Now you may be thinking that this brilliant resourcefulness had something to do with a sense of responsibility as the “event coordinator.” In fact, it had nothing to do with that. But it had everything to do with the black patent leather on my feet. Because a real Dallas Girl always has a SOLID Plan B** to get her shoes out on the dance floor.
*Not her real name.
**Ok, so she didn’t know either. But you see, the SOLID Plan B always has a SOLID Plan C which consists of driving around downtown until someone sees it.
7/18/2007
Big Geeks Far from the Prairie
Where on the geek-o-meter do we fall if my mom called me to tell me to TURN ON THE TV! Because a special 2-hour episode of Little House on the Prairie comes on in 15 minutes - and she thinks it's one we've never seen! (which is just short of a miracle since we spent all of my childhood summers watching re-runs)
And I immediately jumped up to grab the Tivo remote so that I could record it.
And I immediately jumped up to grab the Tivo remote so that I could record it.
7/17/2007
Dream a little dream
How fantastic would it be if your academic research topic had to do with TEEN FICTION?
I’ll tell you. It’s BLOODY FANTASTIC. That’s right – got it approved today. By the professor. And he looked genuinely excited about it.
50% of the grade for the class! On teen fiction!
I’ll tell you. It’s BLOODY FANTASTIC. That’s right – got it approved today. By the professor. And he looked genuinely excited about it.
50% of the grade for the class! On teen fiction!
Because you want your skin to be soft, supple, and as thick as an elephant's
All healthy derision and sarcasm aside, there are some things from my previous Violin-centric living for which I am grateful. Like the fact that you don’t get a performance degree without cultivating the resilience of something like 100 extra strength rubber bands. Part of this comes from the daily opportunities to stand completely vulnerable in front of both peers and established artists as they mercilessly critique and evaluate your work and ideas – the ideas into which you’d been putting your blood, sweat, tears and a kidney or two. You do this even when the ideas aren’t quite fully developed and you have to bite your tongue lest you give in to the uncontrollable urge to tell everyone that swear to God, in the practice room, you nail that passage every time. You do this every day and you learn to get over yourself and leave your easily bruised feelings at home because those extraordinarily fresh ideas you had? Maybe not quite as extraordinarily fresh as you thought. At least they aren’t coming across that way. But you also learn to evaluate your own work better. And then, what do you know? Your work really does get better.
I miss that. I also miss the sense of empowerment and exhilaration you get from getting out of the sidelines and into the ring.
And that is why I volunteered to get up in front of the class yesterday to share my life map. I was a bit apprehensive as it was a totally different ring from the violin ring, which I knew like back of my bow hand. Not to mention it’s been a while since I’ve put something I’ve created out there to be examined for more than just looking pretty or sounding funny. Granted, the setting for this particular introductory class is not to critique and evaluate, but rather to share and enjoy. Everyone gets a pat on the back. But it was still an opportunity to get back in the ring. Because someday soon, in some way, I’m sure that I’m going to have to get over myself again.
But maybe even more significant is that I stood up in front of my peers, my prof. and the TA this week and admitted that YES, I am a graduate student and I love pink, I love glitter and I love girl pop. So there.
I miss that. I also miss the sense of empowerment and exhilaration you get from getting out of the sidelines and into the ring.
And that is why I volunteered to get up in front of the class yesterday to share my life map. I was a bit apprehensive as it was a totally different ring from the violin ring, which I knew like back of my bow hand. Not to mention it’s been a while since I’ve put something I’ve created out there to be examined for more than just looking pretty or sounding funny. Granted, the setting for this particular introductory class is not to critique and evaluate, but rather to share and enjoy. Everyone gets a pat on the back. But it was still an opportunity to get back in the ring. Because someday soon, in some way, I’m sure that I’m going to have to get over myself again.
But maybe even more significant is that I stood up in front of my peers, my prof. and the TA this week and admitted that YES, I am a graduate student and I love pink, I love glitter and I love girl pop. So there.
7/15/2007
The answer is not "the combination of red and white"
I cancelled a trip to Dallas this weekend (I know, I know, but I have a very good reason) so that I could quantify my entire life up to this point on an 11x17 flat surface.
It is just as fun as and even more difficult than it sounds and is something you should definitely try if you would like to experience the power of the creative process first-hand. Because you might be very surprised.
If, for example, you’d asked me before I created this life map, which question my life has answered, I’d might have said one of the following:
•What happens when a person makes the same mistake over and over again?
•When am I going to find something I love to do that makes as much money as the things that I don’t love to do? (wait, no that’s actually a question that my life has NOT answered)
•Why, oh WHY did I spend so much of my life in a violin-centric bubble? (I ask myself this every day after all)
Or even:
•How did the painfully shy kindergartner who pretended she knew how to skip and actually faked the motions IN FRONT OF HER ENTIRE CLASS when it was her turn, because it was better than speaking up to say that she was home sick on the day that they learned it, end up being the one who frequently strikes up conversation with strangers in the check-out line?
And I really did incorporate most of those questions into this project. But who knew that in the end, I would discover that I’ve lived my entire life in order to answer the following question:
What does pink mean? (and why the hell aren’t I Britney Spears yet?)
I mean, YOU wouldn’t go to Dallas without knowing what pink means, would you?
It is just as fun as and even more difficult than it sounds and is something you should definitely try if you would like to experience the power of the creative process first-hand. Because you might be very surprised.
If, for example, you’d asked me before I created this life map, which question my life has answered, I’d might have said one of the following:
•What happens when a person makes the same mistake over and over again?
•When am I going to find something I love to do that makes as much money as the things that I don’t love to do? (wait, no that’s actually a question that my life has NOT answered)
•Why, oh WHY did I spend so much of my life in a violin-centric bubble? (I ask myself this every day after all)
Or even:
•How did the painfully shy kindergartner who pretended she knew how to skip and actually faked the motions IN FRONT OF HER ENTIRE CLASS when it was her turn, because it was better than speaking up to say that she was home sick on the day that they learned it, end up being the one who frequently strikes up conversation with strangers in the check-out line?
And I really did incorporate most of those questions into this project. But who knew that in the end, I would discover that I’ve lived my entire life in order to answer the following question:
What does pink mean? (and why the hell aren’t I Britney Spears yet?)
I mean, YOU wouldn’t go to Dallas without knowing what pink means, would you?
7/11/2007
Taking a Closer Look
Some things my group discovered around campus and on the drag for our Creative Strategies assignment today:
On the sidewalk (next two images):
The trees along this street have metal "tracking" tags on them:
I was the one who insisted that we take this one, because, well, I've actually felt a little like this tree before - trying to break OUT OF THE BOX. (By the way, you will never, ever hear me liken myself to a tree again.)
On the sidewalk (next two images):
The trees along this street have metal "tracking" tags on them:
I was the one who insisted that we take this one, because, well, I've actually felt a little like this tree before - trying to break OUT OF THE BOX. (By the way, you will never, ever hear me liken myself to a tree again.)
7/10/2007
A Warm Welcome Home from the Crickets
Those little black spots.
This is the stairway that leads from my front door up to my living space. Now wasn't that thoughtful of these three to line up to greet me?
They are just so damn sweet!
This is the stairway that leads from my front door up to my living space. Now wasn't that thoughtful of these three to line up to greet me?
They are just so damn sweet!
7/08/2007
One down and she's still kickin'
So I’ve survived my FIRSTGRADUATECLASS. I realize that my perception of graduate reality so far consists of ONE class that met only twice a week and was over in six weeks. But still, I’ve successfully dipped my toe into the pool. In fact, I'd venture to say that I've got at least one foot in the water by now. And guess what? I’m feeling ok.
Apparently, I am the first student in the history of Media Management ADV385 to have led the entire class in a round of applause and cheering at the end of our last textbook assignment. But what else would you expect from The Queen of pre-graduate school agony and panic? This is a BIG DEAL.
Believe me, it’s a miracle that I didn’t bring my disco ball and portable stereo to class so that we could have a proper get-down, hip-swingin', hands-up, Soultrain-aspiring throw down.
Apparently, I am the first student in the history of Media Management ADV385 to have led the entire class in a round of applause and cheering at the end of our last textbook assignment. But what else would you expect from The Queen of pre-graduate school agony and panic? This is a BIG DEAL.
Believe me, it’s a miracle that I didn’t bring my disco ball and portable stereo to class so that we could have a proper get-down, hip-swingin', hands-up, Soultrain-aspiring throw down.
7/06/2007
Very Properly Giving the Finger to Academic Paper Writing
Because I hate it almost as much as I hate Victorian furniture.
And you can’t start sentences with words like “and.”
Or include incomplete sentences.
• Or use bullets even though I’m pretty sure most people in “the real world” prefer bullet points to ponderous prose when they are reading about a TOTALLY DRY topic
OR WRITE IN ALL CAPS WHEN YOU WANT TO EMPHASIZE SOMETHING.
And quotation marks aren’t used to add sarcasm to a “normal” word/phrase.
And you can’t use words-that-are-actually-a-bunch-of-words-strung-together.
Or insert extra periods even if that is the. only. way. to make your point.
Or throw in a shout out, even if it’s in parentheses (ex: BTW, Dr. Smith, that joke you told in class the other day about this? Totally LMAO!)
And BTW, UR definitely NOT allowed to use short hand like that either,
And using slang? Bloody hell no, y’all. Fo’ shizzle.
Blah, blah. BLAH.
And you can’t start sentences with words like “and.”
Or include incomplete sentences.
• Or use bullets even though I’m pretty sure most people in “the real world” prefer bullet points to ponderous prose when they are reading about a TOTALLY DRY topic
OR WRITE IN ALL CAPS WHEN YOU WANT TO EMPHASIZE SOMETHING.
And quotation marks aren’t used to add sarcasm to a “normal” word/phrase.
And you can’t use words-that-are-actually-a-bunch-of-words-strung-together.
Or insert extra periods even if that is the. only. way. to make your point.
Or throw in a shout out, even if it’s in parentheses (ex: BTW, Dr. Smith, that joke you told in class the other day about this? Totally LMAO!)
And BTW, UR definitely NOT allowed to use short hand like that either,
And using slang? Bloody hell no, y’all. Fo’ shizzle.
Blah, blah. BLAH.
7/02/2007
The W/D Connection
And did you press your cheek up against its coldness and wrap your arms around its boxy-ness and kiss it yet?
Ok, yes. I was the one who instant messaged that. But it was my FRIEND who IMed:
I finally know what it’s like to be IN LOVE with a washer and dryer.
Because we had an entire exchange wherein we waxed on and on and on about a washer and dryer (wait, did I really just write “wherein?”) - the washer and dryer that used to be mine before I sold them to my friend in all its Whirlpool glory and moved to the pale mud green apartments, where I’m provided with an astonishingly efficient (read: teeny, stackable, no frills) W/D set. And while they were taking my beloved Whirlpools out and loading it into the back of her truck, I must have said to her at least 100 times, “LOOK, it has a HAND-WASHABLES setting. See? Do you see it? You can wash your HAND WASHABLES in there.”
AND I could put more than a small basketful of laundry in there. AND there was a special timed device in which to put my laundry softener. AND if I really did have only a small basketful of bath towels, I could dry it in just one dryer cycle. And don't even get me STARTED on the extremely impressive array of setting options.
All of which, of course, I didn’t fully appreciate until it was gone.
But now I know, oh washer and dryer set, how great thou art. We miss you!
We being me, my clothes and my bottle of original formula Woolite.
7/01/2007
Sisterhood, Sappiness, and All of That
One of my girls (the Boutique VIP) from Dallas came to Austin this week to visit her Austin stores. It was the first time I’ve seen one of my Dallas female friends since I moved.
Like most women, when it comes to that girlfriend connection, I turn into a certified sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. And I’m not generally a sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. But I totally get why people write entire books and films about it. I've been known to pore over an extensive photo essay or two. I mean, you know it’s a very powerful bond when you don’t even think twice about holding someone’s hand because she’s too drunk to make it to the restroom on her own, and then going into the stall with her to make sure she doesn’t fall into the toilet* because you know that she would totally come to your rescue and pretend to be your lesbian date when that sleazy guy on the dance floor won’t leave you alone. Of course, there are different levels of sap. I’d say that I relate less, if at all, to the girls who get together to bake milk chocolate chip cookies while crying together over epic love movies and more to those of us who know that real women eat dark chocolate and aren’t afraid of saying that the newborn baby in that picture is ugly. But the actual bond itself is the same across all sap levels. And while modern technology allows us to connect, even in different cities, there is still nothing like being together in person.
Which is why I was so happy to see the Boutique VIP in person. So that we could be in the same room to do the following: compare “father talking to his daughter” stories, wonder why it’s so hard for people to understand why it REALLY IS a big deal for some of us to go camping and not be able to wear make-up and jewelry for more than a couple days, and dish about our NBA crushes in detail. There is something reassuring about looking across your drink and seeing someone else who once thought boys had cooties. In my case, it was an especially sappily sentimental opportunity to spend time with someone who’s known me for more than a month, who knows me well enough to have blackmail stories from 5 years ago and who’s answered the phone and just listened to me cry because my heart was broken but I had nothing to say. Someone who I’ve known long enough that I could show her my new laptop bag, ask if the color was truly hideous and expect an HONEST answer. It felt like home.
*I should clarify that this particular act is something I've done before, but NOT something that I've ever had to do for the Boutique VIP. It was just an example to illustrate my point here which happened to be in the same post I wrote about her.
Like most women, when it comes to that girlfriend connection, I turn into a certified sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. And I’m not generally a sappy-talkin’, sentimental ninny. But I totally get why people write entire books and films about it. I've been known to pore over an extensive photo essay or two. I mean, you know it’s a very powerful bond when you don’t even think twice about holding someone’s hand because she’s too drunk to make it to the restroom on her own, and then going into the stall with her to make sure she doesn’t fall into the toilet* because you know that she would totally come to your rescue and pretend to be your lesbian date when that sleazy guy on the dance floor won’t leave you alone. Of course, there are different levels of sap. I’d say that I relate less, if at all, to the girls who get together to bake milk chocolate chip cookies while crying together over epic love movies and more to those of us who know that real women eat dark chocolate and aren’t afraid of saying that the newborn baby in that picture is ugly. But the actual bond itself is the same across all sap levels. And while modern technology allows us to connect, even in different cities, there is still nothing like being together in person.
Which is why I was so happy to see the Boutique VIP in person. So that we could be in the same room to do the following: compare “father talking to his daughter” stories, wonder why it’s so hard for people to understand why it REALLY IS a big deal for some of us to go camping and not be able to wear make-up and jewelry for more than a couple days, and dish about our NBA crushes in detail. There is something reassuring about looking across your drink and seeing someone else who once thought boys had cooties. In my case, it was an especially sappily sentimental opportunity to spend time with someone who’s known me for more than a month, who knows me well enough to have blackmail stories from 5 years ago and who’s answered the phone and just listened to me cry because my heart was broken but I had nothing to say. Someone who I’ve known long enough that I could show her my new laptop bag, ask if the color was truly hideous and expect an HONEST answer. It felt like home.
*I should clarify that this particular act is something I've done before, but NOT something that I've ever had to do for the Boutique VIP. It was just an example to illustrate my point here which happened to be in the same post I wrote about her.
6/30/2007
Don't let the graduate students fool you
With less than a week until the due date of our media plan project, I just had this exchange with one of my group members:
"Wow. I think I finally feel like I know what I'm talking about."
"How did you know? I was just thinking that I feel like I finally know what I'm talking about."
And yet we've all managed to work on and fight over this thing for FOUR WEEKS already. It's amazing how many things there are to fight about even when you don't know what the hell you're talking about.
"Wow. I think I finally feel like I know what I'm talking about."
"How did you know? I was just thinking that I feel like I finally know what I'm talking about."
And yet we've all managed to work on and fight over this thing for FOUR WEEKS already. It's amazing how many things there are to fight about even when you don't know what the hell you're talking about.
6/28/2007
I have something to say. Three Times.
I politely declined a request for my phone number from Guy at Apple Store yesterday. He did a truly impressive job of intertwining flirtatious comments right in there with his helpful comments regarding the Airport Extreme Base Station vs. the Airport Express Base Station. He's a nice guy. In fact, he was so nice that he helped me pick the better deal and helped me save money. Twice. So I gave my heartfelt thanks. But when he called my name out and came running after me as I was on my way out of the store, clearly putting himself on the line in front of all of his co-workers, and asked for my number, I didn’t feel bad about saying no. Furthermore, I did not feel obliged to say, “Sorry I’m seeing someone” or apologize or lie in any way shape or form. Women everywhere would be shocked and appalled.
How, they would ask, can you be so mean?
GET OVER YOURSELF.
I have always maintained that you do NOT have to lie when you don’t want to give a man your phone number. Here’s the thing. I find it remarkably insulting when someone lies to me. Essentially, they are taking me for a fool. I’m with Judge Judy: “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.” And it’s even more insulting and ridiculously presumptuous when someone lies to me because they think I’m made of damn glass. Please. GET OVER YOURSELF.
I mean, to each her own and all of that, but I’m just saying that if you want to say “No thank you,” for the love of God, just say, “No thank you” or something to that nature. You don’t have to say, “HELL, no. Are you fucking kidding me?” But you don’t have to give some sort of fake phone number or say, “Oh, um, well, you know. It’s just.. it’s just. I’m sorry. It’s just that I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry” And you know what else? Even if you do have a significant other, hopefully the reason you don't want to give your number is because you are genuinely NOT interested, so you can just say, “No thank you.” Believe me, the guy just met you – he’s not going to stay up at night crying because YOU said “No thank you.”
One more time: GET OVER YOURSELF.
How, they would ask, can you be so mean?
GET OVER YOURSELF.
I have always maintained that you do NOT have to lie when you don’t want to give a man your phone number. Here’s the thing. I find it remarkably insulting when someone lies to me. Essentially, they are taking me for a fool. I’m with Judge Judy: “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.” And it’s even more insulting and ridiculously presumptuous when someone lies to me because they think I’m made of damn glass. Please. GET OVER YOURSELF.
I mean, to each her own and all of that, but I’m just saying that if you want to say “No thank you,” for the love of God, just say, “No thank you” or something to that nature. You don’t have to say, “HELL, no. Are you fucking kidding me?” But you don’t have to give some sort of fake phone number or say, “Oh, um, well, you know. It’s just.. it’s just. I’m sorry. It’s just that I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry” And you know what else? Even if you do have a significant other, hopefully the reason you don't want to give your number is because you are genuinely NOT interested, so you can just say, “No thank you.” Believe me, the guy just met you – he’s not going to stay up at night crying because YOU said “No thank you.”
One more time: GET OVER YOURSELF.
6/27/2007
The Crickets ARE NOT in Times Square
Because they are following me through the great state of Texas. Throughout the 6 years I lived at the last apartment complex, my friends, coworkers and family were regularly regaled with The Great Cricket Tales: How for one particularly bad 2 weeks, I’d have 7-8 new ones come to visit every night; how they could jump as high as my waist; how that jumping was so loud that I kept thinking there was another person messing around in the apartment; and how I could swear up and down that they were IN MY INTERCOM BOX. These sound like exaggerations, but they are not. I admit that the intercom box one sounded a little daffy even to me, until one day I SAW one of them scuttling back into said box which eventually led to the dismounting of the box, only to find (if you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip ahead) at least 20. dead crickets. inside.
So most of these friends and family thought it was totally crazy that there were crickets coming into my apartment in the first place. Ants, beetles, spiders, even scorpions... yeah, those are regular sightings in Texas homes. But crickets? Apparently, it was only me. Oh, they’d pat my hand and say, “there, there,” but I’m quite certain that they’d all go on and regale all of their friends with The Great “Crazy Girl with the Cricket Tales” Tales. I felt somewhat validated when upon moving out with the help of some of these people, behind the washer and dryer which hadn’t been moved for 6 years, there were dozens upon dozens of old dead crickets. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about those crickets, were you?”
Kidding? Yes, I love to make up stories about being scared shitless over creatures the size of my thumb.
It took no longer than 2 weeks here in Austin for them to find me again. Oh the familiar sound of long floppy legs and merry chirping (“We’re here! We’re here! Did you miss us?”). To my pleasant surprise, however, I’ve discovered that when I see one, I’m no longer immediately frozen with fear. My heart doesn’t start to race and I don’t start sweating with only one thing left to do: stand there staring at it for one whole minute as it gleefully frolics around the room until I work up enough courage to run for the Raid, spray the thing from 8 ft. away and shriek each time it jumps (insect activists should stop reading here) until it finally gives up and dies, leaving me in a cloud of toxic fumes.
NOW, I see one of my cricket friends and say, “Well, of course.” I immediately reach for the Woolite Carpet Cleaner (might as well clean the carpet while I’m at it) and give the thing a few squirts to slow it down. And then, sometimes while it’s STILL ALIVE, I’ll either push it toward the door to kick it outside or I’ll pick it up with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet. No toxic fumes required.
By golly, if for nothing else, graduate school is good for your fear of crickets.
So most of these friends and family thought it was totally crazy that there were crickets coming into my apartment in the first place. Ants, beetles, spiders, even scorpions... yeah, those are regular sightings in Texas homes. But crickets? Apparently, it was only me. Oh, they’d pat my hand and say, “there, there,” but I’m quite certain that they’d all go on and regale all of their friends with The Great “Crazy Girl with the Cricket Tales” Tales. I felt somewhat validated when upon moving out with the help of some of these people, behind the washer and dryer which hadn’t been moved for 6 years, there were dozens upon dozens of old dead crickets. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about those crickets, were you?”
Kidding? Yes, I love to make up stories about being scared shitless over creatures the size of my thumb.
It took no longer than 2 weeks here in Austin for them to find me again. Oh the familiar sound of long floppy legs and merry chirping (“We’re here! We’re here! Did you miss us?”). To my pleasant surprise, however, I’ve discovered that when I see one, I’m no longer immediately frozen with fear. My heart doesn’t start to race and I don’t start sweating with only one thing left to do: stand there staring at it for one whole minute as it gleefully frolics around the room until I work up enough courage to run for the Raid, spray the thing from 8 ft. away and shriek each time it jumps (insect activists should stop reading here) until it finally gives up and dies, leaving me in a cloud of toxic fumes.
NOW, I see one of my cricket friends and say, “Well, of course.” I immediately reach for the Woolite Carpet Cleaner (might as well clean the carpet while I’m at it) and give the thing a few squirts to slow it down. And then, sometimes while it’s STILL ALIVE, I’ll either push it toward the door to kick it outside or I’ll pick it up with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet. No toxic fumes required.
By golly, if for nothing else, graduate school is good for your fear of crickets.
6/26/2007
For the West TX-grown, West Coast Ivy Leauge educated Palo Alto Girl
Because of her, I can never say that my Kindergarten year in Littleton, Colorado was dull. Because of her, I am still just an instant message away from a laugh. Or a bitch-session. Or a purchase consultation. Because of her, there is at least one person who truly hears me when I speak.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATWOMAN!!!
- From the N. TX-grown, East Coast Conservatory educated Dallasite
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATWOMAN!!!
- From the N. TX-grown, East Coast Conservatory educated Dallasite
6/24/2007
The Real Accomplishment of Graduating
I learned a lot of things in college.
Impressive things like how to sing “Happy Birthday” in solfege, analyze “The Rite of Spring,” and completely dissect the Sonata form. (What do you mean you’re not impressed?)
Interpersonal things like if you manage to recruit a chamber group without at least one person who will show up to rehearsals only half of the time and in a half baked state, then you’ve TOTALLY beaten the odds.
Useful things such as: when you live in Rochester, NY in the winter time, you need not bother trying to look sexy when you walk (it’s all in the hip shifting) or style your hair because if you don’t wear a stiff, hooded, down-filled coat that goes down to at least your knees and allows for no extraneous movement plus a warm hat that covers your ears under the hood of that coat, then you WILL freeze your ass off.
And as so recently pointed out to me by various people in my life, illegal things. Like jaywalking across the busiest multi-lane intersection in downtown on an average of 15 times a day. At the time, it didn’t seem as if I was risking my life each time I ran on the snow and ice in the above-mentioned coat (which if you are wearing, you have to turn your entire body in order to look left or right) while carrying a bag full of books and an instrument worth thousands of dollars in just enough time to beat the next speeding car. It seemed the only smart thing to do. I mean, it was COLD and we didn’t have the time to just STAND there at the light, waiting for it to change. Please. Those lights were just suggestions.
Which is why I felt a sense of familiarity during my first visit to my new campus, even before I accepted admission. Not only is the communications building located on one of the busiest intersections on campus, but when the Director of the program walked me over from his office to said building, he didn’t just jaywalk, he jaywalked at least 10 feet away from the actual intersection. As we jogged across, he turned to me and said, “They did teach you to jaywalk at that New York school, didn’t they?”
At that moment, I knew I was among friends. The difference is that now I check for cops.
Impressive things like how to sing “Happy Birthday” in solfege, analyze “The Rite of Spring,” and completely dissect the Sonata form. (What do you mean you’re not impressed?)
Interpersonal things like if you manage to recruit a chamber group without at least one person who will show up to rehearsals only half of the time and in a half baked state, then you’ve TOTALLY beaten the odds.
Useful things such as: when you live in Rochester, NY in the winter time, you need not bother trying to look sexy when you walk (it’s all in the hip shifting) or style your hair because if you don’t wear a stiff, hooded, down-filled coat that goes down to at least your knees and allows for no extraneous movement plus a warm hat that covers your ears under the hood of that coat, then you WILL freeze your ass off.
And as so recently pointed out to me by various people in my life, illegal things. Like jaywalking across the busiest multi-lane intersection in downtown on an average of 15 times a day. At the time, it didn’t seem as if I was risking my life each time I ran on the snow and ice in the above-mentioned coat (which if you are wearing, you have to turn your entire body in order to look left or right) while carrying a bag full of books and an instrument worth thousands of dollars in just enough time to beat the next speeding car. It seemed the only smart thing to do. I mean, it was COLD and we didn’t have the time to just STAND there at the light, waiting for it to change. Please. Those lights were just suggestions.
Which is why I felt a sense of familiarity during my first visit to my new campus, even before I accepted admission. Not only is the communications building located on one of the busiest intersections on campus, but when the Director of the program walked me over from his office to said building, he didn’t just jaywalk, he jaywalked at least 10 feet away from the actual intersection. As we jogged across, he turned to me and said, “They did teach you to jaywalk at that New York school, didn’t they?”
At that moment, I knew I was among friends. The difference is that now I check for cops.
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