But I still wear makeup every time I leave the apartment

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

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

Fortunately, chocolate doesn't have the same effect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A taste of stardom always wins

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

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

Shoutout to The One Who is MOVING TO AUSTIN!!

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

Conceptual Creativity Hangover

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

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

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

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

What does pink mean?

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

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



Who knew?

They are even more mutant than you think

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

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

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

Taking every opportunity to make my loyalties perfectly clear

Conversation at my advertising campaign group meeting:

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

“Revolutionary?”

“Individualist?”

“I like the word ‘maverick.’” (me)

General agreement.

“Maybe because I love the Mavs.”

Groans all around.

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

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

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

Something Smells Delicious

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

A Couple of Questions for the Austinites

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


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

The Blonde Sheep

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

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

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

HIM: No.

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

HIM: I don’t know. I just know.

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

How did I come from that?

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

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

My fellow gym members’ ears must be throbbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plan “C my Dust-free Shoes”

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

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

Complete silence.

“Um, I don’t know. Don’t you?”

“I thought YOU knew.”

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

“Ok, hold on, hold on. I know.” (me)

Collective sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

Big Geeks Far from the Prairie

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

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

Dream a little dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or even:

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

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

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

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

Taking a Closer Look

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





On the sidewalk (next two images):





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






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