Recent conversation between me, my friend who's also from Texas and my other friend who went to HS in San Francisco (after we'd decided that it would be really cool to have a “Portfolio Class Prom.” I know, I know, but we have class from 5 – 8 pm. Every idea sounds AWESOME by 6:30):
“We need to get those big, huge flowers with the ribbons flowing down from them to wear on our arms.”
Shocked silence.
“Are you talking about a MUM? Those are for homecoming!”
“And you don’t wear those on your ARM!”
“I don’t know, what’s the difference?”
Sound of jaws dropping.
“HOMECOMING IS IN THE FALL!”
“And it’s about FOOTBALL.”
“Ok, but don’t you wear flowers to prom too?”
“You wear a corsage to prom.”
“Which is in the spring.”
“But they’re still flowers, right?”
“Different flowers. It’s totally different. TOTALLY. DIFFERENT.”
“Alright, THAT then. We need to get that. Geez, who KNOWS shit like this?”
Peals of mad, gasp-filled laughter due to visions of showing up to prom with plastic megaphones and ribbons with your name written on them in glitter.
10/25/2008
10/16/2008
I write haikus now
But only when it's another in-class writing assignment (this time, the topic being rice cakes):
Add your own toppings
Nutella, peanut butter
Diet food my ass
Because three "yays" out of an entire page of "nays" is better than seeing my entire future crumple in front of my eyes
A typical in-class critique for me means that I’ve brought in taglines and headlines, of which 99% I feel are crap; 98% on a good day. Last week, it was 102%. It was also the day my professor decided to “help me out” by reading every one of those crap lines aloud to get a “yay” or “nay” from the class.
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
And I never even touched a slot machine
Things I discovered during my recent trip to Las Vegas:
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
10/15/2008
But then again, a glove would cover up all my big, shiny rings
When my friends at school are standing outside tapping the ashes from their cigarettes after another coffee-filled all-nighter and calling out, “Hey Dallas Princess!” or “You! Healthy little fart, yes you,” I know they are talking to me. I know this because they are the ones who took me to a gritty bar downtown and then wanted to crawl into the toilets and die of embarrassment when I vehemently demanded to know WHERE THE SOAP WAS. These are the friends who regularly get my chirpy text messages at 5 A.M. on my way to the gym. And by some inexplicable act of God, despite all of this, they have not yet banished me from their regular ash-tapping caucuses in the courtyard between classes.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
10/11/2008
When you're so immersed in a semester that you start posting schoolwork on your blog
My response to a recent in-class writing assignment loosely based on 55 flash fiction. Our only rules were that it be 55 words, be about death or love and written in 10 minutes:
Autumn is so ugly. Beautiful, blazing New England fall foliage, whatever. Those brilliant reds and oranges say, "dying." Leaves are dying, summer is dying, strappy shoe season is dying. Boutiques start bringing out brown and beige and brownish beige. But most importantly, autumn is the harbinger of a new school year. Which means I'm dying.
9/24/2008
Quote of the Week
If I ever decided to get married for some reason, fuck the dress. I'm getting the mattress.
-My art director on Vera Wang mattresses
9/10/2008
Vamp in Wonderland
When you’re in a degree program in which all the males are 12 years old (under 30, whatever) and half of them are Artsy-Fartsy, a good dose of raw grown-up testosterone is rare. For someone like me, triple-digit degree testosterone comes in the form of a man who likes sports, beer, math and a smart girl in a short skirt.
So you can imagine my coquettish delight when a whole gaggle of testosterone-filled men came down recently to hang out by the Pedernales River. Since the last time I’d hung out with them all together in their collective man’s man glory was quite a while ago, I was in my short skirt and at the river before you could say “men.”
And then came the uninterrupted hours of soaking up the brilliant scent of sweat and masculinity. There was swimming, drinking, card games and shameless flirting. They blasted music that made me want to kill myself just a little bit (a good indication of triple-digit testosterone), accused each other of cheating, burst into spontaneous air guitar and called me out for using my feminine wiles to distract them from winning. But I mean, what else was I supposed to do when the tassel of beads fell off the front of my bikini top? Of course I had to inch up my tank top to replace it right away or it might’ve gotten lost. The fact that it happened in the middle of a game of Scat was just a bonus. And even though they didn’t fall for it, they loved it. And that’s all I wanted – you know, just a few moments of all their hungry, testosterone-lit eyes on me. Ok, ok, several moments. And by that I mean almost the entire evening.
There are some who may gasp, Disgusting! Aren’t you letting them objectify you?
These men are the same men who were even more turned on when I fell out of my chair laughing because one of them called a xylophone a harmonophone (“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that in front of a MUSIC MAJOR”). They are the ones who ask me what I’m doing in school, listen intently and respond intelligently. They laugh at my stories and ask for my opinion in every discussion. When I spend time with them individually, every single one of them treats me better than some of the men I’ve actually dated. They respect every significant other I bring around and they respect me.
If that doesn’t drive a girl to place her Scat cash winnings (and that was from the game BEFORE the beaded tassel) in her bikini top in return for an increased dose of respectful testosterone, then I don’t know what does.
Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.
So you can imagine my coquettish delight when a whole gaggle of testosterone-filled men came down recently to hang out by the Pedernales River. Since the last time I’d hung out with them all together in their collective man’s man glory was quite a while ago, I was in my short skirt and at the river before you could say “men.”
And then came the uninterrupted hours of soaking up the brilliant scent of sweat and masculinity. There was swimming, drinking, card games and shameless flirting. They blasted music that made me want to kill myself just a little bit (a good indication of triple-digit testosterone), accused each other of cheating, burst into spontaneous air guitar and called me out for using my feminine wiles to distract them from winning. But I mean, what else was I supposed to do when the tassel of beads fell off the front of my bikini top? Of course I had to inch up my tank top to replace it right away or it might’ve gotten lost. The fact that it happened in the middle of a game of Scat was just a bonus. And even though they didn’t fall for it, they loved it. And that’s all I wanted – you know, just a few moments of all their hungry, testosterone-lit eyes on me. Ok, ok, several moments. And by that I mean almost the entire evening.
There are some who may gasp, Disgusting! Aren’t you letting them objectify you?
These men are the same men who were even more turned on when I fell out of my chair laughing because one of them called a xylophone a harmonophone (“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that in front of a MUSIC MAJOR”). They are the ones who ask me what I’m doing in school, listen intently and respond intelligently. They laugh at my stories and ask for my opinion in every discussion. When I spend time with them individually, every single one of them treats me better than some of the men I’ve actually dated. They respect every significant other I bring around and they respect me.
If that doesn’t drive a girl to place her Scat cash winnings (and that was from the game BEFORE the beaded tassel) in her bikini top in return for an increased dose of respectful testosterone, then I don’t know what does.
Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.
8/26/2008
When I look in the freshly Windexed mirror, I see my mother’s zeal
Like any good germaphobe, my personal collection of cleaning supplies include (but is not limited to) Lysol mildew remover, Scrubbing Bubbles shower cleaner, Scrubbing Bubbles disposable toilet brushes and disinfectant wipes, Swiffer wet jet pads, Swiffer dry cloths, Soft Scrub deep clean foaming cleanser, rubber gloves and several area-specific toothbrushes and sponges.
But why?, my mother asked recently.
Because, I answered, I grew up in a house that was so spotless that people took showers before they came to visit.
Yes, well, she responded virtuously, all I need is a bottle of Lysol and some old rags.
Which led to a new sense of responsibility and a reevaluation of my bathroom cabinet. Did I really need 10 different cleaners for my 600 sq. ft. apartment? After all, I am the daughter of a woman who has mastered the art of simplicity.
But just as I'd resolved to trade the contents of my cabinet in for a bottle of good old-fashioned Lysol, I suddenly remembered that the woman who has mastered the art of simplicity is the same woman who regularly buys eight pounds of toasted almond dark chocolate bark from the Whole Foods candy counter. That’s four boxes full of $12/lb chocolate candy. In one purchase. By a woman who weighs less than the total cost.
And that is when I changed my Swiffer wet jet pad and tore gleefully into my new 3-pak of shower cleaner and an unopened bag of sponges. I mean, it’s the least I can do as the daughter of a woman who needs only a bottle of Lysol, some old rags and EIGHT POUNDS OF CHOCOLATE.
But why?, my mother asked recently.
Because, I answered, I grew up in a house that was so spotless that people took showers before they came to visit.
Yes, well, she responded virtuously, all I need is a bottle of Lysol and some old rags.
Which led to a new sense of responsibility and a reevaluation of my bathroom cabinet. Did I really need 10 different cleaners for my 600 sq. ft. apartment? After all, I am the daughter of a woman who has mastered the art of simplicity.
But just as I'd resolved to trade the contents of my cabinet in for a bottle of good old-fashioned Lysol, I suddenly remembered that the woman who has mastered the art of simplicity is the same woman who regularly buys eight pounds of toasted almond dark chocolate bark from the Whole Foods candy counter. That’s four boxes full of $12/lb chocolate candy. In one purchase. By a woman who weighs less than the total cost.
And that is when I changed my Swiffer wet jet pad and tore gleefully into my new 3-pak of shower cleaner and an unopened bag of sponges. I mean, it’s the least I can do as the daughter of a woman who needs only a bottle of Lysol, some old rags and EIGHT POUNDS OF CHOCOLATE.
8/24/2008
In the kettle’s defense, he’s also a bad-ass athlete, outdoorsman, poker player and owner of a wicked cool motorbike
“What??!!?? The SOUNDTRACK to Battlestar Galactica? You’re even dorkier than I thought you were when I found out that you watch the show! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Shut up and listen. This is good stuff.”
“Ha ha ha ha! I can’t wait to tell everyone you own this”
“WILL YOU JUST LISTEN? This is the best track …”
“Ha ha ha! Dork, dork, dork... g minor.”
“g minor?”
“Yeah, this track. You know, it’s in g minor…”
Said the violinist teapot to the Sci-Fi watching kettle.
“Shut up and listen. This is good stuff.”
“Ha ha ha ha! I can’t wait to tell everyone you own this”
“WILL YOU JUST LISTEN? This is the best track …”
“Ha ha ha! Dork, dork, dork... g minor.”
“g minor?”
“Yeah, this track. You know, it’s in g minor…”
Said the violinist teapot to the Sci-Fi watching kettle.
8/17/2008
Fall Shmall. At least I saved the lovely white Benetton leather.
I have a tolerance that lets me drink about ½ a cocktail before I start finishing sentences that I forgot I started. So I expected that something might happen when I went to the Fall Creek Vineyards Annual Grape Stomp and Harvest Festival in Tow, Texas.
Sure enough, one minute I was gliding along the dirt road in my white shorts, white bag and pretty white shoes
and the next minute, I was staring at the little dirt road pebbles that were 3 inches from my face and desperately reaching for my handbag so that I could brush off the dirt before it seeped into the pristine white leather.
Absolutely, I expected this to happen. It’s just that I thought it would happen after I’d had 8 kinds of wine instead of before I’d even made it to the entrance of the festival.
Sure enough, one minute I was gliding along the dirt road in my white shorts, white bag and pretty white shoes
and the next minute, I was staring at the little dirt road pebbles that were 3 inches from my face and desperately reaching for my handbag so that I could brush off the dirt before it seeped into the pristine white leather.
Absolutely, I expected this to happen. It’s just that I thought it would happen after I’d had 8 kinds of wine instead of before I’d even made it to the entrance of the festival.
And do they think that kitten heels are found on furry paws?
The Boy: How tall are you in heels?
Me (after having picked myself off the floor from fainting at the complexity of this question, my mind reeling from mentally going through my entire collection of heels): You are asking me an extremely complicated question.
Have they never noticed that 4-inch heels are, you know, about 2 ½ inches higher than 1½ -inch heels?
(By the way, I did that math about 10 times in my head to make sure it was right, so if anyone tells me that it’s wrong, I will throw myself out the window and grudgingly admit that The Boy at least knows how to add simple fractions.)
8/05/2008
One short year of purist AP English, one long career of writing headlines for milk ads
Me at 17 from my back corner seat in my high school English class:
Cliff Notes? For WUSSIES. I am a purist, damnit. (even though I’d used them for the past 3 years) Yes, anyone who STILL uses Cliff Notes for additional insight needs to learn to come up with her OWN f-in' ideas. And anyone who uses them for the summaries? OMG, I don’t even know where to start.
Me at 32 from my front row seat in graduate school:
Don’t they have Cliff Notes for these readings? You know, just a little summary or something. This is hard.
Cliff Notes? For WUSSIES. I am a purist, damnit. (even though I’d used them for the past 3 years) Yes, anyone who STILL uses Cliff Notes for additional insight needs to learn to come up with her OWN f-in' ideas. And anyone who uses them for the summaries? OMG, I don’t even know where to start.
Me at 32 from my front row seat in graduate school:
Don’t they have Cliff Notes for these readings? You know, just a little summary or something. This is hard.
7/29/2008
After this, I solemnly swear that I will try not to mention crime shows ever again. Because I don't NEED them. I can stop at anytime. Amen.
Last night, I received an email from my mother:
My mother does not write quite as, you know, PROPERLY as I do, but if she did, she would've absolutely written "TOTALLY HOOKED" and "ALL AFTERNOON" and would have put a couple more exclamation points after "Mexico." And at the end, she would've added "All of them. In one afternoon!" Also, she would've put in some footnotes and inserted several links. But most importantly, her last sentence would've been: You do know that when I tell you that you watch entirely too many crime shows in one day, what I'm really saying is, "Give up the remote because I NEED TO WATCH THE TRAVEL CHANNEL!"
Alright, she might not write that last part, but I mean, please. At least my regular viewing of investigative journalism enhances my relationships with family and old friends.
Which is why I'm fully expecting our next gathering of family and friends to include several platters of bizarre foods from Tobago.
I was totally hooked on the travel channel today. I was watching Bizzare foods with Andrew Zimmern. Zimmern was on all afternoon! I watched Taiwan, Japan, India, Vietnam, Trinidad and Tobago, and Mexico.
My mother does not write quite as, you know, PROPERLY as I do, but if she did, she would've absolutely written "TOTALLY HOOKED" and "ALL AFTERNOON" and would have put a couple more exclamation points after "Mexico." And at the end, she would've added "All of them. In one afternoon!" Also, she would've put in some footnotes and inserted several links. But most importantly, her last sentence would've been: You do know that when I tell you that you watch entirely too many crime shows in one day, what I'm really saying is, "Give up the remote because I NEED TO WATCH THE TRAVEL CHANNEL!"
Alright, she might not write that last part, but I mean, please. At least my regular viewing of investigative journalism enhances my relationships with family and old friends.
Which is why I'm fully expecting our next gathering of family and friends to include several platters of bizarre foods from Tobago.
7/24/2008
Like a toy fish in a pond full of Koi
An unexpected ring of truth from this week's ponderous quagmire of academic reading, which is, tragically, EVEN WORSE than academic writing:
And this, my friends, might help to explain a small fraction of why I stayed at the stone showroom job for way too long. (the blonde and fun part, not the eminence part because if that were the case, you'd think I'd be happily collecting commission checks instead of plowing through scholarly texts, acting as if I belong in the graduate school pond)
*I feel the need to add that this is a SMALL excerpt taken out of context and does not represent the book's nor the author's view of feminism in any way. I also, as some may have noticed, seem to love writing footnotes.
Even Mary Wells developed a kind of feminist consciousness. She still did not like "militant libbers," as she called them, and she regretted that her eminence kept clients from flirting with her. ("It was more fun when they thought I was a sexy blonde.")
-from Stephen R. Fox's The Mirror Makers: A History of American Advertising and its Creators*
And this, my friends, might help to explain a small fraction of why I stayed at the stone showroom job for way too long. (the blonde and fun part, not the eminence part because if that were the case, you'd think I'd be happily collecting commission checks instead of plowing through scholarly texts, acting as if I belong in the graduate school pond)
*I feel the need to add that this is a SMALL excerpt taken out of context and does not represent the book's nor the author's view of feminism in any way. I also, as some may have noticed, seem to love writing footnotes.
7/20/2008
No longer strangers, enjoying a beautiful sunset by the lake
Drawing inspiration from Angie , I’d like to begin this post by sharing my own thoughts for a word or two.
FLUMMOXED! is the look you get when you show up at someone’s 30th birthday party at his family lake house and say, “Happy Birthday, John*! So nice to meet you!”
Flummoxed is the look you get when you further explain, “Oh, right. I’m Carl*’s friend and since Carl’s out of town, I drove out here with Ken* who I’ve met only once before. But he can TOTALLY vouch for me because I just spent an entire hour in the car with him and I did NOT manipulate him into handing over his wallet, his keys and his SOUL. Even though I was trained in sales and am now schooling in the ways of advertising and as EVERYONE KNOWS, that is what we do.”
Just kidding. Yes, I did show up to a total stranger’s birthday party because his roommate who is out of town invited me and I drove out there with an almost perfect stranger because I really, really wanted to go to this party at the lake but didn’t want to get lost in the back roads of Texas Hill Country. But OF COURSE the last part isn’t true. I mean, please. I’ve only been in sales and advertising for less than 10 years. But I’ve been a girl for 32 years. We have much better things than money and souls on which to waste our natural manipulative skills . We have parties at the lake to finagle into, for Pete’s sake.
*Fake names of course
FLUMMOXED! is the look you get when you show up at someone’s 30th birthday party at his family lake house and say, “Happy Birthday, John*! So nice to meet you!”
Flummoxed is the look you get when you further explain, “Oh, right. I’m Carl*’s friend and since Carl’s out of town, I drove out here with Ken* who I’ve met only once before. But he can TOTALLY vouch for me because I just spent an entire hour in the car with him and I did NOT manipulate him into handing over his wallet, his keys and his SOUL. Even though I was trained in sales and am now schooling in the ways of advertising and as EVERYONE KNOWS, that is what we do.”
Just kidding. Yes, I did show up to a total stranger’s birthday party because his roommate who is out of town invited me and I drove out there with an almost perfect stranger because I really, really wanted to go to this party at the lake but didn’t want to get lost in the back roads of Texas Hill Country. But OF COURSE the last part isn’t true. I mean, please. I’ve only been in sales and advertising for less than 10 years. But I’ve been a girl for 32 years. We have much better things than money and souls on which to waste our natural manipulative skills . We have parties at the lake to finagle into, for Pete’s sake.
*Fake names of course
Perfectly grounded in reality and never, EVER carried away by an overactive imagination. Not EVER.
I saw an old friend last week. And Stephanie is exactly the same as she was the last time I saw her when we were both 5 years old. She still has the same dark hair and eyes, she still wears the same girly pastel dresses and she can still do the coolest things. Like breathing. Without any oxygen!
Because Stephanie, as I found out many years later, is what they call an imaginary friend.
And clearly, I haven’t seen Stephanie for a while because I am now a grown woman who has learned to channel my imagination through much more sophisticated avenues. Like “thinking outside of the box.” Or, oh I don’t know, refining an extremely reasonable and healthy sense of writing in hyperbole.
(As for the rest of my life, I am a very rational human being. I mean, how many other women can say that she developed an overwhelmingfear of sense of reality about committed long-term relationships while still in high school?)
So the day before Stephanie came back into my life, I went to get my mail. And when I opened my mailbox, there was an official post office key waiting for me right at the front of my box. My initial thought was, What the hell? My initial action was to stare blankly at the thing for a full 30 seconds (because I am a graduate student and we are very smart that way) before I picked it up and read the key chain, which said that it was property of the post office and that if found, was to be dropped into any U.S. mail receptacle. So of course, I figured the mailperson left it in my box by accident and I immediately dropped it right back in the box for outgoing mail.
Later that day, I started thinking about it again and it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t an accident. After all, there was that time in Dallas that we got warnings about some suspected mail theft that was going on in our apartment complex.
OMG. SOMEONE IS STEALING MAIL AND TRYING TO FRAME ME! They put that key in there so that MY fingerprints will be ALL OVER IT! How could I be so careless?
Immediately, I started figuring out what I was going to say when the police called.
The next day, I checked my mail again only to find the SAME KEY. In MY mailbox. AGAIN. Of course, I jumped back and put my hands behind my back because there was no way in hell I was going to touch that thing again. Except that it looked a little different today. So I leaned closer and saw that they key chain was flipped on the other side. And this other side said something about having a package in #8.
#8? I looked to the right and saw the larger mailbox labeled “P8.” The same larger mailbox I always thought belonged to, logically, a larger apartment unit. A unit so large that it was called a "penthouse." Or a "palace."
Was someone in the "penthouse" trying to FRAME ME? Unbelievable! I mean, un-bloody-belieava- Wait a minute. Unless “P” stands for…
Which is when I saw my old friend Stephanie. And when I started to think about what the mailperson must think of me. Me who recently mailed out a stack of thank you cards, each with insufficient postage. Me who even more recently angrily wrote “RETURN TO SENDER!” on a letter and tried to mail it back without crossing out the barcode.
And that’s how I decided that the next time I drive up to the mailboxes to collect my mail and the mailperson is standing in a place where he might at ALL be able to see me open my box, Stephanie and I are going to just drive right on by and come back later.
Because Stephanie, as I found out many years later, is what they call an imaginary friend.
And clearly, I haven’t seen Stephanie for a while because I am now a grown woman who has learned to channel my imagination through much more sophisticated avenues. Like “thinking outside of the box.” Or, oh I don’t know, refining an extremely reasonable and healthy sense of writing in hyperbole.
(As for the rest of my life, I am a very rational human being. I mean, how many other women can say that she developed an overwhelming
So the day before Stephanie came back into my life, I went to get my mail. And when I opened my mailbox, there was an official post office key waiting for me right at the front of my box. My initial thought was, What the hell? My initial action was to stare blankly at the thing for a full 30 seconds (because I am a graduate student and we are very smart that way) before I picked it up and read the key chain, which said that it was property of the post office and that if found, was to be dropped into any U.S. mail receptacle. So of course, I figured the mailperson left it in my box by accident and I immediately dropped it right back in the box for outgoing mail.
Later that day, I started thinking about it again and it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t an accident. After all, there was that time in Dallas that we got warnings about some suspected mail theft that was going on in our apartment complex.
OMG. SOMEONE IS STEALING MAIL AND TRYING TO FRAME ME! They put that key in there so that MY fingerprints will be ALL OVER IT! How could I be so careless?
Immediately, I started figuring out what I was going to say when the police called.
The next day, I checked my mail again only to find the SAME KEY. In MY mailbox. AGAIN. Of course, I jumped back and put my hands behind my back because there was no way in hell I was going to touch that thing again. Except that it looked a little different today. So I leaned closer and saw that they key chain was flipped on the other side. And this other side said something about having a package in #8.
#8? I looked to the right and saw the larger mailbox labeled “P8.” The same larger mailbox I always thought belonged to, logically, a larger apartment unit. A unit so large that it was called a "penthouse." Or a "palace."
Was someone in the "penthouse" trying to FRAME ME? Unbelievable! I mean, un-bloody-belieava- Wait a minute. Unless “P” stands for…
Which is when I saw my old friend Stephanie. And when I started to think about what the mailperson must think of me. Me who recently mailed out a stack of thank you cards, each with insufficient postage. Me who even more recently angrily wrote “RETURN TO SENDER!” on a letter and tried to mail it back without crossing out the barcode.
And that’s how I decided that the next time I drive up to the mailboxes to collect my mail and the mailperson is standing in a place where he might at ALL be able to see me open my box, Stephanie and I are going to just drive right on by and come back later.
7/10/2008
Maybe I should let them take my violin card
You know those people who are SO BAD at hearing lyrics that they go around singing about “watermelon phone lights” in a hip hop song?
Well I’m one of those people and I’m totally cool with it. But that was before this morning when I found out that the lyrics to Jessie McCartney’s Leavin’ are actually “flying on a g5, g5.” You see, what I’ve been hearing is “blah blah blah blah G-flat, G-flat.”
Why do I care about this? Because those FAKE lyrics took me to a very, very dark place. One that smells like rosin dust and never hears the light of Britney Spears. Because ALL I could think about every time I heard these lyrics was that I HATE G-FLAT. It’s an awkward note on the violin, it’s an obscenely stupid key with 6 bloody flats, and F-sharp is SO MUCH BETTER.
Every time the song came on, this would rage on in my head and afterward, I’d be completely pissed because I’d just WASTED 3 minutes of my life.
But now I’m scared that when I hear this song, even though I now know that he is singing about a plane, I will still be thinking about E-flat minor. And then I will start thinking about the time I got in a screaming match with a former client who had a stick up his ass because he was a songwriter and to HIM, a G-flat sounds exactly the same as an F-sharp. Which, as all violinists know, is a LOAD OF CRAP. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?
Holy crap, do you SEE how annoying I am in that dark place? I need to RELAX.
Excuse me while I go light a lavender candle, put on Baby One More Time, and remove the violin from out of my ass.
Well I’m one of those people and I’m totally cool with it. But that was before this morning when I found out that the lyrics to Jessie McCartney’s Leavin’ are actually “flying on a g5, g5.” You see, what I’ve been hearing is “blah blah blah blah G-flat, G-flat.”
Why do I care about this? Because those FAKE lyrics took me to a very, very dark place. One that smells like rosin dust and never hears the light of Britney Spears. Because ALL I could think about every time I heard these lyrics was that I HATE G-FLAT. It’s an awkward note on the violin, it’s an obscenely stupid key with 6 bloody flats, and F-sharp is SO MUCH BETTER.
Every time the song came on, this would rage on in my head and afterward, I’d be completely pissed because I’d just WASTED 3 minutes of my life.
But now I’m scared that when I hear this song, even though I now know that he is singing about a plane, I will still be thinking about E-flat minor. And then I will start thinking about the time I got in a screaming match with a former client who had a stick up his ass because he was a songwriter and to HIM, a G-flat sounds exactly the same as an F-sharp. Which, as all violinists know, is a LOAD OF CRAP. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?
Holy crap, do you SEE how annoying I am in that dark place? I need to RELAX.
Excuse me while I go light a lavender candle, put on Baby One More Time, and remove the violin from out of my ass.
7/09/2008
Sometimes you have to dumb it down, glam it up and add in a little David Caruso
The day I learned to spell g-e-o-p-h-y-s-i-c-i-s-t (officially because I needed to fill out those assignments at school that say “My father is a _________,” but as the offspring of two pathological spellers, this was also a fun family activity) was the day I started having no idea what my father does for a living.
Back then, I knew that my father went to work from Monday through Friday in a 3-piece suit and a brief case and when I asked him what he did there, there was a really loooong pause before he finally said, “Uh. Well, I –“ And he looked down at his little right-brained girl with the crayon in her hand and finished, “I find oil in the Earth.” At least that’s what he said until we had the fun family activity in which we learned how to spell p-e-t-r-o-l-e-u-m.
During the summer that I was 19, I worked at his company as an intern. And when you are a violin performance major working as an intern at an oil & gas company, you get relegated to the basement where you spend all day panicking that all these hours of filing and entering data instead of PRACTICING is surely going to result in completely forgetting how to do left hand pizzicato.
I was still curious about my petroleum-finding father however, so the highlight of my day was going up to his office to figure out, once and for all, WHAT HE DOES. But by the end of the summer, all I could deduce was that he spent all day looking at big colorful wavy lines on the computer screen or on printed out graphs.
THIS?? THIS is what takes my father on trips around the world and makes his signature worth millions of dollars? Still, I was afraid to ask him what it all meant because for some reason, just the sound of the word “seismic” made me laugh uncontrollably and my father just didn’t get this. And I was pretty sure that he didn’t want me to ask him what it all meant either. I mean, what geophysicist wants to explain seismic waves to his 19-year-old daughter who was wearing her music-conservatory-in-the-Northeast fashion to his North Texas corporate office?
A couple of years ago, in the middle of my second career breakdown and job search, long after I’d stopped wearing bohemian shirts with sunflowers on them (shrudder), I figured it was about time to look up the job responsibilities of a geophysicist. It went something like this:
• Responsible for the depth conversion and integration of 2D and 3D structure maps with well tops and gridding maps for input into the Petrel static model
• Interpreting 2D and 3D seismic data sets
• Integrating well logs, VSP’s into interpretation of seismic data
• Helping to build and modify static geologic models with geophysical attribute maps of lithology, facies, stratigraphy, and thickness
I immediately went back to telling people that my dad “finds petroleum in the Earth.”
But about a month ago, my father asked me to proofread a course description and instructor biography for a class that he will be teaching later this year. And that is when I found out that my father is not just any geophysicist. He is a geophysicist and ”longtime advocate of proper depth conversion.” All of a sudden, I felt very responsible. How can I be the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion and still not know what my father really does, let alone how I feel about proper depth conversion or about any kind of depth conversion?
So last weekend, the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion finally asked her father to really explain what he does. And y'all. It turns out that my father is actually a Crime Scene Investigator! Well, if you count the formation of the Earth’s crust as a crime scene. He actually prefers to use the analogy of a doctor who interprets sonograms, but is it not just a little more exciting to think of subsurface sand structures as crafty criminals who will not be outsmarted by a depth converting geophysicist? See, it turns out that interpreting seismic data is like interpreting DNA and other forensic evidence to figure out how the crime happened. (formation, crime, whatever) And when you can figure out how it happened, then you know where to get the petroleum and suck it all out into the open. You know, the way Horatio always gets the truth all out into the open in CSI: Miami.
Sure, it took 32 years, but I can finally say that I KNOW WHAT MY FATHER DOES. My father, the geophysicist, outwits subsurface structures in order to uncover the grisly petroleum.
And just in case you’re wondering: yes I too am an advocate of proper depth conversion. Because not believing in it would be like not believing that Horatio’s team should properly dust for fingerprints. Can you imagine the ending of THAT episode?
Who says TV doesn’t make you smarter?
Back then, I knew that my father went to work from Monday through Friday in a 3-piece suit and a brief case and when I asked him what he did there, there was a really loooong pause before he finally said, “Uh. Well, I –“ And he looked down at his little right-brained girl with the crayon in her hand and finished, “I find oil in the Earth.” At least that’s what he said until we had the fun family activity in which we learned how to spell p-e-t-r-o-l-e-u-m.
During the summer that I was 19, I worked at his company as an intern. And when you are a violin performance major working as an intern at an oil & gas company, you get relegated to the basement where you spend all day panicking that all these hours of filing and entering data instead of PRACTICING is surely going to result in completely forgetting how to do left hand pizzicato.
I was still curious about my petroleum-finding father however, so the highlight of my day was going up to his office to figure out, once and for all, WHAT HE DOES. But by the end of the summer, all I could deduce was that he spent all day looking at big colorful wavy lines on the computer screen or on printed out graphs.
THIS?? THIS is what takes my father on trips around the world and makes his signature worth millions of dollars? Still, I was afraid to ask him what it all meant because for some reason, just the sound of the word “seismic” made me laugh uncontrollably and my father just didn’t get this. And I was pretty sure that he didn’t want me to ask him what it all meant either. I mean, what geophysicist wants to explain seismic waves to his 19-year-old daughter who was wearing her music-conservatory-in-the-Northeast fashion to his North Texas corporate office?
A couple of years ago, in the middle of my second career breakdown and job search, long after I’d stopped wearing bohemian shirts with sunflowers on them (shrudder), I figured it was about time to look up the job responsibilities of a geophysicist. It went something like this:
• Responsible for the depth conversion and integration of 2D and 3D structure maps with well tops and gridding maps for input into the Petrel static model
• Interpreting 2D and 3D seismic data sets
• Integrating well logs, VSP’s into interpretation of seismic data
• Helping to build and modify static geologic models with geophysical attribute maps of lithology, facies, stratigraphy, and thickness
I immediately went back to telling people that my dad “finds petroleum in the Earth.”
But about a month ago, my father asked me to proofread a course description and instructor biography for a class that he will be teaching later this year. And that is when I found out that my father is not just any geophysicist. He is a geophysicist and ”longtime advocate of proper depth conversion.” All of a sudden, I felt very responsible. How can I be the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion and still not know what my father really does, let alone how I feel about proper depth conversion or about any kind of depth conversion?
So last weekend, the daughter of a longtime advocate of proper depth conversion finally asked her father to really explain what he does. And y'all. It turns out that my father is actually a Crime Scene Investigator! Well, if you count the formation of the Earth’s crust as a crime scene. He actually prefers to use the analogy of a doctor who interprets sonograms, but is it not just a little more exciting to think of subsurface sand structures as crafty criminals who will not be outsmarted by a depth converting geophysicist? See, it turns out that interpreting seismic data is like interpreting DNA and other forensic evidence to figure out how the crime happened. (formation, crime, whatever) And when you can figure out how it happened, then you know where to get the petroleum and suck it all out into the open. You know, the way Horatio always gets the truth all out into the open in CSI: Miami.
Sure, it took 32 years, but I can finally say that I KNOW WHAT MY FATHER DOES. My father, the geophysicist, outwits subsurface structures in order to uncover the grisly petroleum.
And just in case you’re wondering: yes I too am an advocate of proper depth conversion. Because not believing in it would be like not believing that Horatio’s team should properly dust for fingerprints. Can you imagine the ending of THAT episode?
Who says TV doesn’t make you smarter?
7/07/2008
Hoping that everyone enjoyed the holiday weekend as much as I did
During my visit to my parents' house:
Mom: What are you watching?
Me: Forensic Files
pause as she watches for a moment
Mom: This is about a murder!
Me: Mmm-hmmm.
Hours later:
Mom: Now what are you watching?
Me: 20/20 on WE
pause
Mom: Another murder story?
Me: Investigative journalism
The next day
Mom: Is this 20/20 AGAIN?
Me: No, this is Cold Case Files on A & E
Mom: Is this the kind of thing you ALWAYS watch? What happened to Judging Amy reruns?
Me: Shhhh. They're about to get a big break in the case...
Later
Me: Can I change the channel?
Mom: Ok.
channel is changed to "48 Hours Mystery"
Mom: ARE YOU SERIOUS?
Me (looking over in surprise): What's wrong?
A few other moments that prompted looks of incredulity and sometimes horror from my parents:
• When I put a full tablespoon of Nutella* on one small strawberry to eat while my mother delicately spread a thin layer on an 8-inch crepe which she was about to eat with several small slices of fruit. After which, I proceeded to spread half of the jar onto my own crepe.
• When I was 1 ½ -ing a recipe and said, “2 tablespoons x 1 ½ is 2 ½ , right?”
• When I crossed several of my toes at once as we were all chatting in the living room (What? I’ve got very long toes and I’m telling you, it feels really good – like stretching.)
• When in the middle of a conversation at the dinner table, I said, “Not since 1989? That was ten years ago!”
You'd think by now, they'd expect this sort of thing from The Blonde Sheep.
*My ONE exception to the Dark Chocolate Rule
Mom: What are you watching?
Me: Forensic Files
pause as she watches for a moment
Mom: This is about a murder!
Me: Mmm-hmmm.
Hours later:
Mom: Now what are you watching?
Me: 20/20 on WE
pause
Mom: Another murder story?
Me: Investigative journalism
The next day
Mom: Is this 20/20 AGAIN?
Me: No, this is Cold Case Files on A & E
Mom: Is this the kind of thing you ALWAYS watch? What happened to Judging Amy reruns?
Me: Shhhh. They're about to get a big break in the case...
Later
Me: Can I change the channel?
Mom: Ok.
channel is changed to "48 Hours Mystery"
Mom: ARE YOU SERIOUS?
Me (looking over in surprise): What's wrong?
A few other moments that prompted looks of incredulity and sometimes horror from my parents:
• When I put a full tablespoon of Nutella* on one small strawberry to eat while my mother delicately spread a thin layer on an 8-inch crepe which she was about to eat with several small slices of fruit. After which, I proceeded to spread half of the jar onto my own crepe.
• When I was 1 ½ -ing a recipe and said, “2 tablespoons x 1 ½ is 2 ½ , right?”
• When I crossed several of my toes at once as we were all chatting in the living room (What? I’ve got very long toes and I’m telling you, it feels really good – like stretching.)
• When in the middle of a conversation at the dinner table, I said, “Not since 1989? That was ten years ago!”
You'd think by now, they'd expect this sort of thing from The Blonde Sheep.
*My ONE exception to the Dark Chocolate Rule
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