She-mail

Sometimes you get the chance to work with crazy- talented, celebrity-gossip lovin’, chocolate-craving co-workers who know how to think, work, play hard and carry on brilliant email discussions. Yesterday was a good email discussion day. The longer one involved both on-site and off-site participants and is too lengthy and replete with inside jokes to share (oh, but it was one of the best). However, this little gem fortuitously occurred right as my mid-afternoon eye-glazing started:

Hotness alert!!! Jude Law is going to be in town for some art gallery opening at the Kristy Stubbs gallery tomorrow

I may have to camp out there. However, while he is brutally hot, he is quite awkward and very European. I watched his interview on Good Morning America and was a bit creeped out by him. He seemed slimy. Hot, but slimy.

Hot and slimy. That sounds like the Noodle Bowl we get at Royal Thai.

Just one little slice of my Panic Pie

I was a junior in high school the last time I actually seriously wrote an academic research paper.

The next year, I was consumed with college auditions, applications and graduation recitals. So I coasted through my senior year of AP English by writing my research paper on Debussy so that all of my research sources were in my family’s "library" at home, peppering it with esoteric classical music terminology in hopes of impressing and/or intimidating my way to a decent grade – an easy maneuver to accomplish since that particular teacher was distracted by all the girls in my class who actually bought into the rumors of his willingness to take on under-aged paramours and if not that, then his willingness to give “A”s to the best flirters. I got an “A.” (Believe me, there was no flirting with 40+ men in my under-aged social repertoire so either he was duly impressed or I can thank the flirting, under-aged girls.)

At my prestigious music conservatory, it was generally accepted that good, well-prepared, spell-checked papers would be turned in by music education majors, composition majors, a handful of double-majors and an even smaller handful of performance majors who were wise enough to see beyond the next 4 years. The rest of us performance majors would throw excellent ideas onto paper in haphazard form and print it out 10 minutes before class without spell-checking or any kind of proofing for that matter – all in the name of practice. We had to PRACTICE! How could we spare any extra time to acknowledge that there could be other skills that might prove useful for the future? Other subject matters to explore more deeply so that we could eventually mature into insightful, well-versed musicians and members of society? God bless the long-suffering professors at music conservatories everywhere who have to teach performance majors. They don’t deserve that.

I, on the other hand, fully deserve the panic I’m feeling about entering graduate school with my previous research writing experience having been from the era of actual card catalogs and golf pencils without erasers.

Girly Girl Time

EYELETTING!! Who knew I could love this crafty-country associated fabric so much? It makes a sweet, sexy little corset. And with the addition of some unexpected detail (bows, lace, satin), it makes a decidedly NON-crafty-country, chic summer top in a fresh color (pink, yellow, deep sky blue).

Yup, it’s bebe Spring Collection time again. Other spring trends at the store:

•Maybe just a little less bling on the clothing (sigh), but LOTS of girly satin bows (yum)
•Don’t stop the lunges and squats because there are still lots of leg-baring short shorts in satin, linen, wool, etc.. They are also showing up as fresh, modern one-piece jumpers (shorts instead of the skirt).
•Short skirts and LOTS of short, flirty dresses - some of them will remind you of when you were a little girl
•Glamorous, luxurious satin EVERYTHING
•Patent leather belts, shoes and handbags – I love this!!
•Still lots of wide or thin waist-belts and peep-toes and wedges
•Big ol’ cocktail rings (I got 2) and shiny metallic bracelets


Bebe managers ROCK.

The world has not come to an end!

This is what I always realize after doing or saying something that affirms my intentions to commit.

This past weekend, in the company of a few friends, a few acquaintances and several strangers, I finally worked up the nerve to utter the phrase, “I’m moving to Austin.” Two days later, the sun still rises and sets, I still need to buy Woolite Dark, 635 westbound is still congested at I-35 in the morning, Kroger still accepts my Shoppers Plus card, and it seems that there are no invisible ropes tying me down behind the invisible bars in the invisible 4-sided box of commitment…yet…. And I even managed to establish 2 new social contacts in Austin.

Now I’m wishin’ that I didn’t wear these shoes…

At about the stroke of 1 is when your 4-inch, kick-ass, black patent peep-toe stilettos will tell your thighs, knees and ankles that they are done supporting your gettin’ down real low.

Ouch. And you still have to walk off the dance floor and out of the club. Thank God for $8 valet parking.

The Tragedy (and travesty) of PCD

I have been a loyal fan of the Pussy Cat Dolls. They brought a fresh, vampish twist to my beloved girl pop genre. I purchased, listened to and blogged about their entire CD. When they opened for Christina Aguilera, I was just as excited to see them as I was to see her and I sang every lyric along with them. I love the songs and I love the choreography. Nicole is a great singer and a fantastic performer.

The Tragedy: Nicole is leaving the group.

So what does the rest of the group do? They’re not ready to stop. I respect that - I wouldn’t either. I truly believe that they deserve the same credit that Nicole does in the success of PCD. After all, Pussy Cat Doll just wouldn’t be the same. They are great dancers so they should keep dancing and performing.

Entering Dangerous Territory: But they don’t want to just keep dancing and performing – they want to simply replace the missing member and carry on. Which would probably work if they were still a burlesque troupe. But they are NOT still a burlesque troupe. They have crossed the line to become a pop group.

The Travesty: They are doing all of this on a REALITY TV SHOW.

I just can't do it. I am, officially, no longer a fan.

Ma'am - I - am

Yes, ma’am.

An insulting insinuation of a woman’s age or an expression of respect used to address any female over the age of 2?

The answer, it seems, depends on where you call home. My first encounter of the first meaning was in college when after a brief conversation with a cashier, my Bostonian friend said with a look of sheer horror, “Did she just call me ma’am?” I soon learned that not only can calling someone “ma’am” be insulting, but calling someone “sir” can sarcastic.

In Texas, we learn to say “please,” “thank you,” “ma’am,” and “sir.” We use this terminology freely around friends, family, and strangers. We use it whether we are talking to people older than we are, to people who are the same age that we are and to people who are younger than we are. And to me, it makes perfect sense that we use the term “ma’am” to get someone’s attention. “Hey!” sounds rude and abrupt. So does “Miss” and “hey lady!” “Excuse me” is too impersonal. Down here, we don’t like to sound rude, abrupt or impersonal. Until they deserve it that is.

So imagine my shock today to read an article in which the author (clearly not from Texas) actually spent $3000 on various dermatologic facial procedures all because she started hearing too many people call her “ma’am!!!”

Here’s what bebe Me has to say to her: Yes, ma’am, all the dermatologists and plastic surgeons in Texas and the deep south would looove you.

Outer Power

I discovered the power of fashion in my life at an early age - the power it has to propel me through gloom, to amplify celebration, to inspire me through creative blocks and to simply bring pleasure to my life every day.

I often hear comments that imply that interest in fashion is some sort of obligation, a rite of passage or even simply a means to a goal. “Oh, yes, I used to keep up with that stuff when I was at that age when it was the thing to do.” Sometimes it is followed by: “…back before I got married. Now I don’t need to impress anybody.” And then there are the implications that paying attention to clothing, hair and make-up is vain, shallow, snooty, only for the wealthy and is surely an indication of insecurity.

I find this perplexing, because for me, fashion is just not any of those things (well, it is a little vain.) Fahion is art. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always dedicated a corner of my thoughts at all times to picturing the pieces of my wardrobe and mentally sorting through all the different combinations of tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, jewelry, purses and belts. Not really because I was trying to maximize my wardrobe, but because it’s a creative outlet. It’s color , lines and texture. It’s mixing things up and keeping things fresh. I do the same with make-up and I do the same with hair.

What is the power in the process of choosing what to wear, which make-up to use and how to style my hair? It gives me something to look forward to every single day when I’m sad. It makes an already special event even more special. When I feel an ebb of creative thoughts, it reassures me that the juices are still flowing somewhere in me. It brings out a strongly opinionated side of my generally open-minded nature as I most recently experienced while watching the 2007 Oscar’s Fashion Police show on E! this year, sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing with the fashion experts and other times jumping up and yelling at the screen about how WRONG these same “experts” were.

This is not a power that comes and goes depending on where I am in life. Sure, the details may change with trends, age and yes, personal budget. But the fulfillment remains the same. For that, I am grateful.

March 6, 2007

What a coincidence that the quote in my day planner is:

The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time. –Abraham Lincoln

Yesterday, I made a monumental decision regarding my future – choosing between two fantastic graduate programs to attend. Unfortunately, I had less than a week to decide, the last few days being a blur of visiting the schools, talking to as many people as possible and changing my mind every hour, depending on what I was looking at or who I was talking to. My brain hurts.

You would think that a decision would bring some sort of relief, maybe some excitement. But it didn’t. I’m just exhausted and plagued with uncertainty and nagging reminders of what I might be giving up by choosing A instead of B. I know I would’ve regretted not choosing A, but truthfully, I have plenty of regrets over not choosing B. Having two equally good options truly is that cliché, a blessing and a curse. Why then, being the eternal optimist, am I only feeling the curse?

Maybe because the uncertainty of picking one program over another isn’t what’s bothering me the most. Perhaps I hoped that making the decision would somehow eradicate the rest of my original misgivings about going to school in the first place. They are still there.

I haven’t been telling anyone about my decision because I’m just not ready for the responses. "Aren’t you excited?" "Isn’t it great?" "You’ll love it!" "You’re so lucky…I wish I could go back to school." "When are you moving?" And I’m too exhausted to fake it. Because the truth is, I’m not excited right now. So how can it be great? I'm not completely sure that I'll love it. I’m aware of my fortunate circumstances so I feel guilty for not feeling lucky and for not being one of those people who LOVES school. I’m just not one of those people. And even though I put in a lot of time and soul-searching to come to terms with the fact that going back to school is what I want to do, there are still plenty of things about it that I’m not looking forward to. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go. In fact, as much as I’m enjoying my work as an Event Coordinator, it seems more clear every day that I’ve made the right choice. What I’m saying is that I’m not as enthusiastic as I think someone should be after making that right choice.

So I’m grasping for something to pull me out of this funk so that I can celebrate my own excitement and not everyone else’s. I’ll start with the words of Abraham Lincoln. One day at a time.