Sex, Drugs and Pagannini

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

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

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

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

Now I can die a happy blogger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seen written on a public bathroom wall near campus:

“All eyes on me and I can’t breath.”

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

Thank God that my germaphobia trumps my spelling neuroticism.

Must be at least 6-8 characters in length

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s very sticky in here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is going to be the BEST year ever.*



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

Nice, generous, whatever

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

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

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

And you can breathe a big sigh of relief.

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

Final critique over.
Semester done.





Stress and panic about the spring semester already started.

The pink at the end of the tunnel

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

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

Aren’t y'all so jealous?

Daddy's Girl

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

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

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

Why do birds suddenly appear?

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, wait. I do need an ad agency.

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty damn cool.

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

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

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

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

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

At least horns really do belong up there

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

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

Plus, she never yells back

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

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

I think I’m dead.

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

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

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

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

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

You can go ahead and tell that to the coroner.

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

**Creative advertising

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

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

As evidenced by 3 recent exchanges:

Verbal Exchange #1

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

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

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

Me: Hell, yeah. Austin is totally hilly.

Email exchange:

Friend: hooray for friday. today is chill.

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

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

Verbal Exchange #2:

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

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

Me: Richmond, VA.

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

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

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

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

Pause of realization

Me: Like you were saying…

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

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

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

!

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

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

Yes. It does.

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

*not her real name

Dixie bebe Me: Ashamed that Blue Bell is from Texas

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

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

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

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

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

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



Turns out my finger is not perfectly round.

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



And my lungs can yell forever.

TEXAS FIGHT!