I think I’m dead.

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

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

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

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

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

You can go ahead and tell that to the coroner.

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

**Creative advertising

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

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

As evidenced by 3 recent exchanges:

Verbal Exchange #1

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

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

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

Me: Hell, yeah. Austin is totally hilly.

Email exchange:

Friend: hooray for friday. today is chill.

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

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

Verbal Exchange #2:

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

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

Me: Richmond, VA.

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

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

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

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

Pause of realization

Me: Like you were saying…

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

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

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

!

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

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

Yes. It does.

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

*not her real name

Dixie bebe Me: Ashamed that Blue Bell is from Texas

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

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

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

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

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

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



Turns out my finger is not perfectly round.

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



And my lungs can yell forever.

TEXAS FIGHT!

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

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

White nectarines.

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

But since I’d be out already…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I still wear makeup every time I leave the apartment

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

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

Fortunately, chocolate doesn't have the same effect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A taste of stardom always wins

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

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

Shoutout to The One Who is MOVING TO AUSTIN!!

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

Conceptual Creativity Hangover

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

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

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

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

What does pink mean?

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

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



Who knew?

They are even more mutant than you think

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

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

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

Taking every opportunity to make my loyalties perfectly clear

Conversation at my advertising campaign group meeting:

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

“Revolutionary?”

“Individualist?”

“I like the word ‘maverick.’” (me)

General agreement.

“Maybe because I love the Mavs.”

Groans all around.

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

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

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

Something Smells Delicious

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

A Couple of Questions for the Austinites

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


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

The Blonde Sheep

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

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

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

HIM: No.

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

HIM: I don’t know. I just know.

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

How did I come from that?

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

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

My fellow gym members’ ears must be throbbing.