All true champions know that unless it is occasionally peppered with the bitter bite of defeat, the sweetness of life just tastes like chicken.
-Alton Brown on The Iron Chef
12/27/2009
Why I don't remember the taste of chicken
-Alton Brown on The Iron Chef
12/23/2009
We blondes eventually get it. It just takes a few seconds. Or years.
This morning, I woke up to the life of my dreams. My dreams from the year 2006.
You see, about three years ago, I was trying to find my brain. It had gotten lost somewhere in the rubble of professional tedium and discontent that I'd let accumulate for too many years. I was ready to make a dramatic change, and yet I had no idea of what I wanted to do. What I did know was that I was going to have to start right back down at the gritty bottom. So after a few months of asking people if they thought I'd be able to become a hip-hop violinist without having to actually play the violin or a professional personal shopper without having to shop for someone else, I finally buckled down to figure out some real, entry-level options.
And three years later, I'm knee-deep in one of those entry-level options and the opportunities to wade right into the next level are unabashedly throwing themselves in front of me. The problem being, of course, that I NO LONGER WANT THEM.
Bloody hell, y'all. I uprooted my entire life, moved to Crunchy City, put my work up to be publicly crucified on a weekly basis and came out with a lovely portfolio that killed a few hundred thousand of my brain cells. All so I could call up a temp agency and live out my dreams that expired right along with the second Bionic Woman.
God bless my karma. I guess she's blonde too.
You see, about three years ago, I was trying to find my brain. It had gotten lost somewhere in the rubble of professional tedium and discontent that I'd let accumulate for too many years. I was ready to make a dramatic change, and yet I had no idea of what I wanted to do. What I did know was that I was going to have to start right back down at the gritty bottom. So after a few months of asking people if they thought I'd be able to become a hip-hop violinist without having to actually play the violin or a professional personal shopper without having to shop for someone else, I finally buckled down to figure out some real, entry-level options.
And three years later, I'm knee-deep in one of those entry-level options and the opportunities to wade right into the next level are unabashedly throwing themselves in front of me. The problem being, of course, that I NO LONGER WANT THEM.
Bloody hell, y'all. I uprooted my entire life, moved to Crunchy City, put my work up to be publicly crucified on a weekly basis and came out with a lovely portfolio that killed a few hundred thousand of my brain cells. All so I could call up a temp agency and live out my dreams that expired right along with the second Bionic Woman.
God bless my karma. I guess she's blonde too.
12/13/2009
Snowflakes that fall on my nose and sunglasses
When I moved to Austin a couple years ago, I swore on my Dirk Nowitzki fathead that I would not change. I would not become a hippie, an emo, a “cool band” elitist or anyone who throws on a pair of Birkenstocks and exposes her dirty, crusty toenails for all the world to see. No, the city that keeps it weird WOULD NOT CHANGE a single fake-blonde hair on my head.
Well y’all, I've changed. No, I haven't cultivated a full head of dreds. Nor have I replaced all of my Britney Spears tunes with Ghostland ones. I have changed in an entirely different way. And I didn’t even know I'd changed until last week, during Dallas’s first “snowfall” of the season. There I was, driving to work through a flurry of snowflakes and I'll be damned if I didn't SMILE. Because of the snow. And then another pig flew past my window.
You see, I am not one of those Texans who is fascinated and delighted with frozen water falling from the sky. After all, I was a kindergartener who trudged through a Denver blizzard and a pesky little sister on a sled, pulled by my reluctant brother through white Calgary winters. So up until I was 18, my attitude toward snow was something like an offhanded “meh.” But then there were the four long years at the music conservatory in one Rochester, NY. And that is when my attitude changed from “meh” to “Are you there God? It’s me, the girl from Texas. JUST KILL ME.” Ok, it may have had something to do with the fact that Rochester’s skies are especially sunless. And snow that accumulates into frozen heaps of greasy, gray slush looks way worse under gloomy skies than under the forgiving light of sunshine. And ok, it probably had a LOT to do with the fact that I started to associate snow with walking through that slush in frumpy down coats and ass-freezing temperatures while my spirit slowly lost all of its breath because I was trying to force it to BE A VIOLINIST AND BE HAPPY ABOUT IT, DAMN IT.
Which is why, for several years, at the very sight of snow, I'd put my hands up in defense and yell, NO I WILL NOT SPEND AN HOUR BY MYSELF IN A TINY PRACTICE ROOM, PERFECTING MY 4-OCTAVE MINOR ARPEGGIOS! And then I'd turn on a sappy love song, curl up with my sunglasses and a pair of strappy sandals and spend the day pining for the sunshine, wondering if I'd feel its heavenly glory ever again.
And how did I get from that to smiles and flying pigs? Austin, Texas. The place where five minutes of walking outside in the summertime left me in an ugly, sticky sweat. The same place where five minutes of walking outside in the dead of winter left me in an ugly, sticky sweat - in the dead of winter, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt no less. The place that is regularly about 10 degrees hotter and 500% more humid than Dallas. Now I know that 10 degrees sounds like nothing to people who don't live in Texas, Florida, the deep south or any other place that closes down at the drop of a snowflake, but thinks nothing of spending every waking triple-degree summer day frying in the heat. But, trust me, it is different. So different that even a warm-weather lover like me can start craving cold. I missed the two times a year I get to drive on ice. I missed getting to wear my winter sweaters for more than one morning every six weeks. And I wanted to be able to walk outside in December without wondering if people were staring at the sweaty ring around my neckline or if they were just very fascinated with my remarkably flat chest.
So of course I was happy to see the snow last week. Because snow, it seems, no longer means the sun has abandoned me forever, leaving me with only a violin and my Galamian technique book. No, y'all - it means that I just might get to wear a sweater AND a coat for several days in a row and leave the ugly sweat at the gym where it belongs.
It also means that as I drove through the snow that day, I took a moment to reach out: "Are you there God? It's me, the girl who kinda likes snow now. So... can we possibly do something about the flat chest?"
And how did I get from that to smiles and flying pigs? Austin, Texas. The place where five minutes of walking outside in the summertime left me in an ugly, sticky sweat. The same place where five minutes of walking outside in the dead of winter left me in an ugly, sticky sweat - in the dead of winter, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt no less. The place that is regularly about 10 degrees hotter and 500% more humid than Dallas. Now I know that 10 degrees sounds like nothing to people who don't live in Texas, Florida, the deep south or any other place that closes down at the drop of a snowflake, but thinks nothing of spending every waking triple-degree summer day frying in the heat. But, trust me, it is different. So different that even a warm-weather lover like me can start craving cold. I missed the two times a year I get to drive on ice. I missed getting to wear my winter sweaters for more than one morning every six weeks. And I wanted to be able to walk outside in December without wondering if people were staring at the sweaty ring around my neckline or if they were just very fascinated with my remarkably flat chest.
So of course I was happy to see the snow last week. Because snow, it seems, no longer means the sun has abandoned me forever, leaving me with only a violin and my Galamian technique book. No, y'all - it means that I just might get to wear a sweater AND a coat for several days in a row and leave the ugly sweat at the gym where it belongs.
It also means that as I drove through the snow that day, I took a moment to reach out: "Are you there God? It's me, the girl who kinda likes snow now. So... can we possibly do something about the flat chest?"
12/08/2009
For behold, I bring you tidings of great teen fiction
Just in time for the holidays, I'd like to share the link to this little site I've seen:
Grown-up thoughts on teen fiction
Grown-up thoughts on teen fiction
12/01/2009
Master of what?
Many of you have heard the first part of this already since it was just too good of a story to keep to myself as soon as it happened. But for anyone reading this who has not heard this story, brace yourself. Because you’ve never heard such ditziness in your life.
So I’d been at work for about an hour and a half or so when I got up to go to the bathroom. While I was standing at the sink washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and noticed that I didn’t have an earring in my right ear. And just as I was wondering how the hell I’d already lost an earring by 10:30 a.m., I looked a little closer. And holy crap, y’all. You see these earrings in this photo?
I’d put TWO of them in my left ear. In the ONE hole.
But you don’t actually think this is the first time something like this has happened to me, do you? There was the time I discovered that I was wearing my V-string sideways. Yes, sideways. Or the time I almost left the house with two contact lenses in the same eye. And all of us flat-chested women have left the house without a bra at least once or twice, but have you ever known anyone to leave the house with two bras on at the same time? Well, YOU DO NOW.
And The University of Texas let her out with a diploma. And a MASTER'S DEGREE.
So I’d been at work for about an hour and a half or so when I got up to go to the bathroom. While I was standing at the sink washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and noticed that I didn’t have an earring in my right ear. And just as I was wondering how the hell I’d already lost an earring by 10:30 a.m., I looked a little closer. And holy crap, y’all. You see these earrings in this photo?
I’d put TWO of them in my left ear. In the ONE hole.
But you don’t actually think this is the first time something like this has happened to me, do you? There was the time I discovered that I was wearing my V-string sideways. Yes, sideways. Or the time I almost left the house with two contact lenses in the same eye. And all of us flat-chested women have left the house without a bra at least once or twice, but have you ever known anyone to leave the house with two bras on at the same time? Well, YOU DO NOW.
And The University of Texas let her out with a diploma. And a MASTER'S DEGREE.
10/20/2009
But at least they'll say "please"
Mom: We’re going to California next month - I have to spend as much time with the grandkids as possible right now while they’ll still talk to me.
Me: You mean until they find out that after midnight, you turn into a hairy, purple, 7-headed toy-eating machine?
Mom: No, I mean pretty soon, they’ll just text. My own grandson will TEXT his brother to pass the corn, please. And then his sister will text a, May I please be excused?, to her mother
Me: Well, I don’t think-
Mom: HAVE YOU WATCHED THE NEWS RECENTLY? KIDS – THEY TEXT INSTEAD OF TALK.
Me: Yeah, but –
Mom (sadly): Oh it’s ok. I’m used to competing with electronics. I mean remember how YOU learned how to bake a crack-free cheesecake?
Me: I googled it?
Mom: Yes, the internet - your surrogate e-mama.
And yes, that is a direct quote. She actually said “surrogate e-mama.”
Me: You mean until they find out that after midnight, you turn into a hairy, purple, 7-headed toy-eating machine?
Mom: No, I mean pretty soon, they’ll just text. My own grandson will TEXT his brother to pass the corn, please. And then his sister will text a, May I please be excused?, to her mother
Me: Well, I don’t think-
Mom: HAVE YOU WATCHED THE NEWS RECENTLY? KIDS – THEY TEXT INSTEAD OF TALK.
Me: Yeah, but –
Mom (sadly): Oh it’s ok. I’m used to competing with electronics. I mean remember how YOU learned how to bake a crack-free cheesecake?
Me: I googled it?
Mom: Yes, the internet - your surrogate e-mama.
And yes, that is a direct quote. She actually said “surrogate e-mama.”
10/15/2009
The only one missing here is Oprah
Well y’all, God and the Universe have spoken. And they have said:
At first, I resisted. Oh how I resisted. Because I had an 80 GB CLASSIC video iPod – a gift of thanks from the granite employers in return for my seven years of servitude as a client/showroom-girl babysitter. And by golly, an 80 GB classic video iPod was good enough for me. But God and the Universe (G&U) are very, very sneaky. Especially when they speak through other people. And other things:
G&U speak through my temp job (end of July)
My resistance: Even if I wanted a Nano, how would my unemployed self afford such a thing? And anyway, I already have my classic video iPod.
Their answer: My classic video iPod stopped working on the first day of my temp job, a.k.a source of income.
Through the lips of an Apple Store Genius Bar Genius
My resistance: I can get my classic iPod fixed. I mean, hello, geniuses.
Their answer: Apple Genius sticks my classic up to his ear, shakes his head slowly and says, “A new hard drive is going to cost you at least $300. You know what you should do? You should trade this in for a discount and get an iPod Nano.” He might as well have taken the stiletto heel off my foot and pierced it through my heart. I did NOT spend seven years calling emergency meetings to resolve cat fights over where to set the showroom thermostat for anything less than a device that costs at LEAST $400.
Through Google (yes, I know – isn’t Google God & the Universe?)
My resistance: I know how to Google. Genius, Shmenius, I’ll fix my classic iPod by myself.
Their answer: You know how they say you can water and love a plant so much that it dies? Same goes for 80 GB classic video iPods .
Through the color pink
My resistance. It’s all good. I still have my pink Sansa Clip that I use for my workouts. Sure its screen sucks, but it plays my tunes and my podcasts. And did I mention? It’s pink.
Their answer: THE IPOD NANO COMES IN PINK.
Through a new friend (beginning of September)
My resistance: How do I know the Nano’s going to be any better than the Sansa Clip? The Sansa is so tiny and light!.
Their answer: I met a new friend who'd just moved to Dallas and guess what he had hooked up in his car? Oh yes, that. He tossed it to me and told me to pick out a song. How could I ignore how small, light, and SLEEK it was. And oh, the iPod screen. How I’d missed the iPod screen.
Through the death of my lovely white earbuds, which came with my classic iPod (mid-September)
My resistance: I can’t give up on my classic iPod yet. I still have his earbuds. Part of him is still alive! Just REPLACE him with a Nano? So cavalier.
Their answer: Killed the earbuds.
Through Steve Jobs - see parentheses after Google. (end of September)
My resistance: Yes but the Sansa Clip? I can listen to the radio on it! And I’ve always hated that my iPod could never play the radio.
Their answer: An email announcing what else but the unveiling of the 5G iPod Nano. The one with the video camera, the pedometer, the genius mixing and iTunes tagging. Wait a minute, iTunes tagging? Doesn’t that mean it has a-??? HOLY CRAP, G&U TOLD STEVE JOBS TO INCLUDE AN FM TUNER JUST SO THAT I WOULD BUY THE DAMN IPOD NANO. (And yes, it has occurred to me that sometimes I’m somewhat narcissistic.)
Through one. last. death (very end of September)
My resistance: You can’t tell me what to do! I will use this Sansa Clip until the day it DIES.
Their answer: Can’t you guess?
Which is when I threw myself on the ground, thrust my hands up toward heaven and all that and said, “FINE. I WILL BUY A 5G iPOD NANO. IN PINK.”
So I did. And y’all, I’m not going to lie. I’m a little bit in love with it.
I mean, after all, it was God, the Universe, Google AND Steve Jobs. It’s a miracle that I just have a new iPod and that I’m not out proselytizing some sort of cosmologic religion in which you pray to your Apple computer’s Google search bar.
Buy ye an iPod Nano.
At first, I resisted. Oh how I resisted. Because I had an 80 GB CLASSIC video iPod – a gift of thanks from the granite employers in return for my seven years of servitude as a client/showroom-girl babysitter. And by golly, an 80 GB classic video iPod was good enough for me. But God and the Universe (G&U) are very, very sneaky. Especially when they speak through other people. And other things:
G&U speak through my temp job (end of July)
My resistance: Even if I wanted a Nano, how would my unemployed self afford such a thing? And anyway, I already have my classic video iPod.
Their answer: My classic video iPod stopped working on the first day of my temp job, a.k.a source of income.
Through the lips of an Apple Store Genius Bar Genius
My resistance: I can get my classic iPod fixed. I mean, hello, geniuses.
Their answer: Apple Genius sticks my classic up to his ear, shakes his head slowly and says, “A new hard drive is going to cost you at least $300. You know what you should do? You should trade this in for a discount and get an iPod Nano.” He might as well have taken the stiletto heel off my foot and pierced it through my heart. I did NOT spend seven years calling emergency meetings to resolve cat fights over where to set the showroom thermostat for anything less than a device that costs at LEAST $400.
Through Google (yes, I know – isn’t Google God & the Universe?)
My resistance: I know how to Google. Genius, Shmenius, I’ll fix my classic iPod by myself.
Their answer: You know how they say you can water and love a plant so much that it dies? Same goes for 80 GB classic video iPods .
Through the color pink
My resistance. It’s all good. I still have my pink Sansa Clip that I use for my workouts. Sure its screen sucks, but it plays my tunes and my podcasts. And did I mention? It’s pink.
Their answer: THE IPOD NANO COMES IN PINK.
Through a new friend (beginning of September)
My resistance: How do I know the Nano’s going to be any better than the Sansa Clip? The Sansa is so tiny and light!.
Their answer: I met a new friend who'd just moved to Dallas and guess what he had hooked up in his car? Oh yes, that. He tossed it to me and told me to pick out a song. How could I ignore how small, light, and SLEEK it was. And oh, the iPod screen. How I’d missed the iPod screen.
Through the death of my lovely white earbuds, which came with my classic iPod (mid-September)
My resistance: I can’t give up on my classic iPod yet. I still have his earbuds. Part of him is still alive! Just REPLACE him with a Nano? So cavalier.
Their answer: Killed the earbuds.
Through Steve Jobs - see parentheses after Google. (end of September)
My resistance: Yes but the Sansa Clip? I can listen to the radio on it! And I’ve always hated that my iPod could never play the radio.
Their answer: An email announcing what else but the unveiling of the 5G iPod Nano. The one with the video camera, the pedometer, the genius mixing and iTunes tagging. Wait a minute, iTunes tagging? Doesn’t that mean it has a-??? HOLY CRAP, G&U TOLD STEVE JOBS TO INCLUDE AN FM TUNER JUST SO THAT I WOULD BUY THE DAMN IPOD NANO. (And yes, it has occurred to me that sometimes I’m somewhat narcissistic.)
Through one. last. death (very end of September)
My resistance: You can’t tell me what to do! I will use this Sansa Clip until the day it DIES.
Their answer: Can’t you guess?
Which is when I threw myself on the ground, thrust my hands up toward heaven and all that and said, “FINE. I WILL BUY A 5G iPOD NANO. IN PINK.”
So I did. And y’all, I’m not going to lie. I’m a little bit in love with it.
I mean, after all, it was God, the Universe, Google AND Steve Jobs. It’s a miracle that I just have a new iPod and that I’m not out proselytizing some sort of cosmologic religion in which you pray to your Apple computer’s Google search bar.
In search of a little self-respect
I’ve mentioned several times on this site that I am a teen fiction enthusiast. A bona fide fanatic, zealot, and devotee. Would it be going too far to call myself a groupie? And yet, I so rarely write about the books that I inhale. I mean, what sort of self-respecting book groupie doesn’t write about the books at which she throws herself in irrepressible lust?
The truth is that while I do, in some fashion, love and enjoy nearly every teen fiction book that I read, there are some that reach me in a way that makes me want to go door-to-door, sharing the good book with those who are lost and in need of something that will make their lives complete. In the last month or so, I’ve read three such books and since I’d rather leave the door-to-door proselytizing to those guys on bikes, I’m going to start sharing these books right here on this space. And if you are open to a life filled with meaning, then you can read these posts. And if you’re just too damn good for teenage angst, then you can slam your browser window shut and I’ll never even know.
P.S. Thank you, Chuck, for planting the seed of this idea. Like two years ago.
The truth is that while I do, in some fashion, love and enjoy nearly every teen fiction book that I read, there are some that reach me in a way that makes me want to go door-to-door, sharing the good book with those who are lost and in need of something that will make their lives complete. In the last month or so, I’ve read three such books and since I’d rather leave the door-to-door proselytizing to those guys on bikes, I’m going to start sharing these books right here on this space. And if you are open to a life filled with meaning, then you can read these posts. And if you’re just too damn good for teenage angst, then you can slam your browser window shut and I’ll never even know.
P.S. Thank you, Chuck, for planting the seed of this idea. Like two years ago.
Teen Fiction: Tale of Two Summers
Click here if you are confused by this post.
BOOK: Tale of Two Summers
AUTHOR: Brian Sloan
SUMMED UP:
Two best friends spend the summer apart, but stay in touch through an online blog. One is gay (Hal), one is straight (Chuck).
MY 1.5 CENTS:
Love it. Crafted, authentic voices and a story that unfolds organically through the written ramblings between two friends. Not unlike the way catwoman and I share our lives in different cities through our emails.
COOL EXCERPTS:
The opening paragraph that instantly lured me in (Hal's voice):
Another gem from Hal in the thick of one of their epistolary fights:
And some of Chuck's voice:
BOOK: Tale of Two Summers
AUTHOR: Brian Sloan
SUMMED UP:
Two best friends spend the summer apart, but stay in touch through an online blog. One is gay (Hal), one is straight (Chuck).
MY 1.5 CENTS:
Love it. Crafted, authentic voices and a story that unfolds organically through the written ramblings between two friends. Not unlike the way catwoman and I share our lives in different cities through our emails.
COOL EXCERPTS:
The opening paragraph that instantly lured me in (Hal's voice):
So right off the bat, I have to say that this whole blog thing you've set up is totally gay. Now, I know that being gay and all I really shouldn't use "gay" in such a derogatory way, but what can I say? Writing blogs is so damn GAY I can't even discuss it. But this was your idea and you're supposedly straight, which makes the whole thing somewhat disturbing, actually: that straight-old-you could come up with such a gay-old-idea for keeping in touch over the course of the summer. But I guess there's no accounting for sexuality or something.
Another gem from Hal in the thick of one of their epistolary fights:
By all rights, I should go off on you. I should really start letting you have it via an endlessly agitated and somewhat enraged stream of electronic invective. But I'm not going to do that. I'm a changed person since you left. I've realized the value of being pithy - which is to say ... F.U., BRO!
And some of Chuck's voice:
One thing that might complicate our storyline is Ryan, our annoying director. He still hasn't told us his mysterious concept for the show, which Ghaliyah thinks means he's a friggin' genius. I think it means the dude has his head up his ass. Seriously. He acts like he knows everything, and he's barely out of school.
Teen Fiction: Born Confused
Click here if you are confused by this post.
BOOK: Born Confused
AUTHOR: Tanuja Desai Hidier
SUMMED UP:
Spot-on experiences that ring true for any second-generation teenager in America through the eyes and camera lens of Dimple, an ABCD ("American Born Confused Desi") with a blonde best friend and parents who provide her with love, samosas, love, a "suitable boy" and love.
MY 1.5 CENTS
At times, it felt a little long (413 pages) to me, but it is totally worth it. Lots of light shed on the Indian culture too.
COOL EXCERPTS:
I LOVE the way Hidier sums up this film student's entire character in the following short dialogue:
I laughed a lot while reading this book, but when Dimple goes home after smoking a joint and first sees her parents? THIS had me rolling on the floor:
BOOK: Born Confused
AUTHOR: Tanuja Desai Hidier
SUMMED UP:
Spot-on experiences that ring true for any second-generation teenager in America through the eyes and camera lens of Dimple, an ABCD ("American Born Confused Desi") with a blonde best friend and parents who provide her with love, samosas, love, a "suitable boy" and love.
MY 1.5 CENTS
At times, it felt a little long (413 pages) to me, but it is totally worth it. Lots of light shed on the Indian culture too.
COOL EXCERPTS:
So not quite Indian, and not quite American. Usually I felt more along the lines of Alien (however legal, as my Jersey birth certificate attests to). The only times I retreated to one or the other description were when my peers didn't understand me (then I figured it was because I was too Indian) or when my family didn't get it (clearly because I was too American). And in India. Sometimes I was too Indian in America, yes, but in India, I was definitely not Indian enough.
I LOVE the way Hidier sums up this film student's entire character in the following short dialogue:
-So, uh, how's film school?
-You couldn't imagine. To be immersed in your metier 24/7, to be liaisoning with people of nearly equal artistic aptitude - it takes rad to a whole new level.
He pronounced metier and liaisoning and, oddly, aptitude, as if he were speaking French. I didn't think he was French though, not even French-Canadian. What the frock was I saying? He was from Jersey.
I laughed a lot while reading this book, but when Dimple goes home after smoking a joint and first sees her parents? THIS had me rolling on the floor:
-High! my parents yelped in unison.
I was stoned. Frock.
10/14/2009
Teen Fiction: The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
Click here if you are confused by this post.
BOOK: The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
AUTHOR: E. Lockhart
SUMMED UP:
Smart, pretty girl (Frankie) rocks the boat at a private boarding school that is dominated by an exclusive, generations-old boys’ club.
MY 1.5 CENTS:
The cool part? Frankie doesn’t outsmart the good old boys in a deliberate fit of sassy girl power (although I do still love deliberate fits of sassy girl power) – she just does what feels right to her and she’s just that smart.
COOL EXCERPTS:
The book ends perfectly with:
BOOK: The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
AUTHOR: E. Lockhart
SUMMED UP:
Smart, pretty girl (Frankie) rocks the boat at a private boarding school that is dominated by an exclusive, generations-old boys’ club.
MY 1.5 CENTS:
The cool part? Frankie doesn’t outsmart the good old boys in a deliberate fit of sassy girl power (although I do still love deliberate fits of sassy girl power) – she just does what feels right to her and she’s just that smart.
COOL EXCERPTS:
Frankie did not accept life as it was presently occurring. It was a fundamental element of her character. Life as it was presently occurring was not acceptable to her. Were she to mellow out - would she not become obedient? Would she not stay on the path that stretched ahead of her, nicely bricked ?
She did not get much out of therapy.
Frankie Landau-Banks is an off-roader.
The book ends perfectly with:
It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can't see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.
She will not be simple and sweet. She will not be what people tell her she should be. That Bunny Rabbit is dead.
She watches the boys as they peel off in different directions and disappear around corners and into the buildings of Alabaster.
She doesn't feel like crying anymore.
10/06/2009
Reply to All: But you may call me Stupid New Girl, thank you.
One of the best parts of a new job is getting the new nickname. Stupid New Girl is by far my favorite, but I think I’ve found a second. It was christened upon me yesterday by a client at my new temp job. And how did he do it? In an email to his sales executive, which eventually ended up in my inbox. Isn’t that special? Yes, in the middle of the email and in a line all by itself, he writes:
bebe me = No Bueno
Now, who knew that a client who doesn’t know how to scroll down to the bottom of an email chain to understand the entire situation before jumping in to things and who also doesn’t seem to understand simple sentences had such a knack for damn good ironic humor? Kudos to the imbecile! It sure as hell made me laugh. It's a bloody shame that he was being serious.
bebe me = No Bueno
Now, who knew that a client who doesn’t know how to scroll down to the bottom of an email chain to understand the entire situation before jumping in to things and who also doesn’t seem to understand simple sentences had such a knack for damn good ironic humor? Kudos to the imbecile! It sure as hell made me laugh. It's a bloody shame that he was being serious.
9/29/2009
I think we're in a rut
Phone conversation with my gay boyfriend last night:
Him: Hey, what are you doing?
Me: Watching football. What are you doing?
Him: Watching Dancing with the Stars.
When did we become SUCH a cliché?
Him: Hey, what are you doing?
Me: Watching football. What are you doing?
Him: Watching Dancing with the Stars.
When did we become SUCH a cliché?
9/14/2009
A little Monday morning levity
And how do you not giggle just a LITTLE bit when you’re at work and have to leave a voice mail for someone named Mr. Doobie?
9/01/2009
8/26/2009
That place with the maple leaf on its flag
Visiting the Okanagan Valley is way better when you're old enough to swim in the lakes without bursting into tears. It's also way better when you can hike, swim and enjoy the view with six feet worth of sexy, smokin'- hot blond man.
Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:
Scroll down or click here to see more
Even with all the smoke from recent forest fires, it is astonishingly beautiful:
Scroll down or click here to see more
More of That Place
Ok, fine. I guess Texas isn't the only place with lovely sunsets:
But the lakes there are definitely better. Hands down. Like, you know, you can actually see your feet in the water and you don't feel like taking 700 showers after swimming in it:
But the lakes there are definitely better. Hands down. Like, you know, you can actually see your feet in the water and you don't feel like taking 700 showers after swimming in it:
8/17/2009
Where the roaches ain’t
Some of y’all may not know this, but I was not born in Glorious Fake Blonde City. Nor was I even born in Texas. Or in any other place where every carbonated drink - brown, clear or otherwise - is “Coke.” I was born in a far-off, exotic land where winters are white and potato chips come in ketchup flavor. No, no, not Hell - Canada, sillies. And by the way, ketchup chips are DELICIOUS. Also, I did not live in an igloo. (But I did get pulled to school by a team of Siberian sled dogs.)
I spent my first five years plus my childhood summer vacations in this place called Canada, eating chocolate Smarties, buying clothes from Marks & Spencer and watching Casey and Finnegan on Mr. Dressup. I learned the alphabet’s ending as x,y,”zed” and I won't look at you funny if you talk about parkades or tukes. If someone were to say to me that they were “on holiday with a bunch of Canucks,” I wouldn't for a second think that it involved Christmas trees and/or hockey players. In my mind, this makes me a proud Canadian-born Texan. But in my Canadian-raised mother’s eyes, I am nothing more than an American who knows that she was born some place vaguely north. So ok, maybe I went through a period of time during which I tried to forget everything from my Canadian roots. But that’s only because it’s hard to be taken seriously in a 2nd grade classroom when you ask to go to the “washroom” or you tell everyone that your brother is just around the corner in “grade 5.” Which is why, by the time I was 13 and had just spent my first summer away from home in Vermont, I had this conversation with my mother:
Me: OMG, mom. I can NOT eat this Aunt Jemimah syrup. I’ve had FRESH, PURE MAPLE SYRUP now. PURE MAPLE SYRUP. You know, from maple trees? They have maple trees in Vermont. Have you EVER had fresh, pure maple syrup from a maple tree?
She stares at me with incredulity – a stare that I fail to notice as I am too busy shaking my head and sighing with pity for the woman who thinks maple syrup comes from a plastic bottle.
Her: I. am. FROM CANADA.
I look up blankly.
Me: So you tried some Vermont syrup in Canada?
Her: Oh good GRIEF. Canada has its own maple trees.
Me: Ok, but do they have as many maple trees as Vermont?
Her: THE FLAG, bebe Me. HAVE YOU SEEN THE CANADIAN FLAG?
And that, y'all, was the day my mother knew for sure that the hot, summer Texas sun really did fry young and impressionable brains until every non-texan thought and memory had burnt to a crisp and fallen off into chicken-fried oblivion. But she accepted it. And probably didn't think too much about it. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. That's when I told her about my upcoming trip to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Me: Yeah, well I might not spend ALL my time in Vancouver. I kind of want to go see some place I’ve never seen. Like I might go to this place called The Okanagan Valley…
A pause that I could not just hear, but actually feel, even over the phone.
Her:: The Okanagan Valley?
Me: Yeah, so there’s a city called Vern-
Her: VERNON. There’s a city called Vernon in the Okanagan Valley. Which you’ve BEEN TO.
Me: What do you mean I’ve been there? I just learned how to spell "Okanagan" a couple of days ago.
Her: I mean that you’ve BEEN THERE. The cherries? Remember picking cherries? We have photos!
Silence.
Her: And the photos of you when you’re standing in the water, bawling because we left you out there to take a picture of you…
Me: Ooooh. You mean the ones where I’m standing in the ocean**?
Her: The ocean?
Me: Yes, I’m in the oc-
Her: You know what? You just enjoy your very first visit to the Okanagan Valley then.
**In case you’re, you know, TEXAN and are unable to tell from the name, the Okanagan Valley is full of lovely lakes, but nowhere near the ocean
I spent my first five years plus my childhood summer vacations in this place called Canada, eating chocolate Smarties, buying clothes from Marks & Spencer and watching Casey and Finnegan on Mr. Dressup. I learned the alphabet’s ending as x,y,”zed” and I won't look at you funny if you talk about parkades or tukes. If someone were to say to me that they were “on holiday with a bunch of Canucks,” I wouldn't for a second think that it involved Christmas trees and/or hockey players. In my mind, this makes me a proud Canadian-born Texan. But in my Canadian-raised mother’s eyes, I am nothing more than an American who knows that she was born some place vaguely north. So ok, maybe I went through a period of time during which I tried to forget everything from my Canadian roots. But that’s only because it’s hard to be taken seriously in a 2nd grade classroom when you ask to go to the “washroom” or you tell everyone that your brother is just around the corner in “grade 5.” Which is why, by the time I was 13 and had just spent my first summer away from home in Vermont, I had this conversation with my mother:
Me: OMG, mom. I can NOT eat this Aunt Jemimah syrup. I’ve had FRESH, PURE MAPLE SYRUP now. PURE MAPLE SYRUP. You know, from maple trees? They have maple trees in Vermont. Have you EVER had fresh, pure maple syrup from a maple tree?
She stares at me with incredulity – a stare that I fail to notice as I am too busy shaking my head and sighing with pity for the woman who thinks maple syrup comes from a plastic bottle.
Her: I. am. FROM CANADA.
I look up blankly.
Me: So you tried some Vermont syrup in Canada?
Her: Oh good GRIEF. Canada has its own maple trees.
Me: Ok, but do they have as many maple trees as Vermont?
Her: THE FLAG, bebe Me. HAVE YOU SEEN THE CANADIAN FLAG?
And that, y'all, was the day my mother knew for sure that the hot, summer Texas sun really did fry young and impressionable brains until every non-texan thought and memory had burnt to a crisp and fallen off into chicken-fried oblivion. But she accepted it. And probably didn't think too much about it. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. That's when I told her about my upcoming trip to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Me: Yeah, well I might not spend ALL my time in Vancouver. I kind of want to go see some place I’ve never seen. Like I might go to this place called The Okanagan Valley…
A pause that I could not just hear, but actually feel, even over the phone.
Her:: The Okanagan Valley?
Me: Yeah, so there’s a city called Vern-
Her: VERNON. There’s a city called Vernon in the Okanagan Valley. Which you’ve BEEN TO.
Me: What do you mean I’ve been there? I just learned how to spell "Okanagan" a couple of days ago.
Her: I mean that you’ve BEEN THERE. The cherries? Remember picking cherries? We have photos!
Silence.
Her: And the photos of you when you’re standing in the water, bawling because we left you out there to take a picture of you…
Me: Ooooh. You mean the ones where I’m standing in the ocean**?
Her: The ocean?
Me: Yes, I’m in the oc-
Her: You know what? You just enjoy your very first visit to the Okanagan Valley then.
**In case you’re, you know, TEXAN and are unable to tell from the name, the Okanagan Valley is full of lovely lakes, but nowhere near the ocean
7/29/2009
I drew a pretty sweet Pegasus too
Over the past few months, I’ve shown my portfolio to at least 30 advertising creatives from more than15 agencies across 3 different cities. So you’d think that by now, I’d feel a little more comfortable carrying around my black leather portfolio case. That it might even feel as natural as carrying around my violin case still feels. Even though I haven’t actually, you know, OPENED my violin case in about six (nine? twelve? twenty?) months, I can still strap it around my shoulder and wear it as confidently as a push-up bra. I feel justified in holding a 7-pound, 31-inch, extremely conspicuous oblong case around my shoulder. Because hell yeah, I can play a four-octave arpeggio in any key you want and I know exactly where to put my bow on the string for a perfect up-bow staccato.
Yet, when I’m carrying a 3-pound, 10” x 13” portfolio case that I can discreetly hold under my arm, I feel totally self-conscious. Even though, if held the right way, it could absolutely pass for just a slightly large day planner. No one in a cramped elevator would even notice the thing if I’d just stand calmly and silently stare ahead. And that’s what I try to do. So that no one can see that my heart is pounding, my cheeks are flushing and my brain is screaming, Can they tell? Do they KNOW that the extent of my Creative Suite knowledge goes just slightly further than knowing where the selection tool is?
Sure, the work in the portfolio case is mine, but I wrote the words. In WORD DOCUMENTS and messy pencil scribbles in a $3 notebook. I feel like a big ol’ Word Doc -usin’ POSER. And one day, I just know that one of those people in the elevator is going to look at me, smile and say, "Hi." And in response, I will of course blurt out, I KNOW HOW TO USE THE CLONE TOOL IN PHOTOSHOP. AND I USED TO DRAW UNICORNS FOR MY FRIENDS AT SCHOOL!
And then I will look around and hope to God that I’m standing naked in front of my entire junior high school. *
*Actually, I never did have this recurring nightmare. But it would’ve been just plain confusing to write “running away from a badminton shuttlecock that had come alive and whose only aspiration was to creep out little future copywriters with its exceeding ugliness.”
Yet, when I’m carrying a 3-pound, 10” x 13” portfolio case that I can discreetly hold under my arm, I feel totally self-conscious. Even though, if held the right way, it could absolutely pass for just a slightly large day planner. No one in a cramped elevator would even notice the thing if I’d just stand calmly and silently stare ahead. And that’s what I try to do. So that no one can see that my heart is pounding, my cheeks are flushing and my brain is screaming, Can they tell? Do they KNOW that the extent of my Creative Suite knowledge goes just slightly further than knowing where the selection tool is?
Sure, the work in the portfolio case is mine, but I wrote the words. In WORD DOCUMENTS and messy pencil scribbles in a $3 notebook. I feel like a big ol’ Word Doc -usin’ POSER. And one day, I just know that one of those people in the elevator is going to look at me, smile and say, "Hi." And in response, I will of course blurt out, I KNOW HOW TO USE THE CLONE TOOL IN PHOTOSHOP. AND I USED TO DRAW UNICORNS FOR MY FRIENDS AT SCHOOL!
And then I will look around and hope to God that I’m standing naked in front of my entire junior high school. *
*Actually, I never did have this recurring nightmare. But it would’ve been just plain confusing to write “running away from a badminton shuttlecock that had come alive and whose only aspiration was to creep out little future copywriters with its exceeding ugliness.”
You may remember me from such places as Event Management Company X
Last week was my first week as a part-time, long-term temp. The job has little to do with copywriting, but it’s a pretty sweet temp gig and I think I’ve made a brilliant first impression. Yup, I’m pretty sure that I impressed the hell out of the marketing communications manager on my fourth day when I was trying to save an event schedule I'd just created in Microsoft Office and I leaned over and had the following exchange with her.
Me: “Hey, I was just, um."
My eyes dart around to see if the director of marketing is still sitting at her desk, ten feet away and within earshot. (She is.)
Me: "Just wondering how I can, uh…"
MC manager is looking at me expectantly.
Me: "Well, you know..."
I lower my voice and lean in closer.
MC manager leans across the desk.
Me (whispering): "How do I...”
Her (whispering): "How do you what?"
Me: "'Save As...'?"
This after a week of trying to navigate my way around an exotic, black laptop that didn’t have a picture of an apple anywhere on it. Apparently, I’ve missed an entire generation of Windows since I last used a PC. And what with trying to remember to close documents on the right instead of the left and to use the scroll bar instead of the two-finger touchpad scroll, it’s a miracle that I didn’t ask her what the hell that crazy extra button at the bottom right corner of the touchpad was. Or maybe it’s a miracle that she didn’t ask me if perhaps I’d feel more comfortable carving the document onto a rock.
Ah but yes, how I have missed being Stupid New Girl. (Hello there, She of the Cool Hats!)
Me: “Hey, I was just, um."
My eyes dart around to see if the director of marketing is still sitting at her desk, ten feet away and within earshot. (She is.)
Me: "Just wondering how I can, uh…"
MC manager is looking at me expectantly.
Me: "Well, you know..."
I lower my voice and lean in closer.
MC manager leans across the desk.
Me (whispering): "How do I...”
Her (whispering): "How do you what?"
Me: "'Save As...'?"
This after a week of trying to navigate my way around an exotic, black laptop that didn’t have a picture of an apple anywhere on it. Apparently, I’ve missed an entire generation of Windows since I last used a PC. And what with trying to remember to close documents on the right instead of the left and to use the scroll bar instead of the two-finger touchpad scroll, it’s a miracle that I didn’t ask her what the hell that crazy extra button at the bottom right corner of the touchpad was. Or maybe it’s a miracle that she didn’t ask me if perhaps I’d feel more comfortable carving the document onto a rock.
Ah but yes, how I have missed being Stupid New Girl. (Hello there, She of the Cool Hats!)
6/12/2009
And then I saw fireworks
It’s no secret that when I was living in Austin, I missed Dallas the way I’d miss a vital organ. A vital organ AND a best friend. Some days, just to fill the void in my heart, I’d listen to podcasts from Dallas radio shows that I didn’t even like. And then there were the little things, like changing my car registration to Travis County, that brought a surprising rush of totally embarrassing tears to my eyes.
Which is why I fully expected an embarrassingly emotional day when I moved back here to Glorious Fake Blonde City. I’d pictured it all in slow motion, set to a song like Chris Daughtry’s Home - the long drive back would be filled with tears and maybe a big dramatic moment where I’d forget all about the steering wheel and throw my arms open and put my hands on my heart.
But when that day finally arrived, and I drove those three hours from Austin to Dallas, there was no crying and no clutching of the heart. Because my mind was completely consumed with only three things:
1.If I change lanes now, will there be enough room behind me for the U-haul truck and my parents’ SUV to change too without causing a 9-car pileup?
2.But if I don’t change lanes now, my friends who are helping me unload will leave and I’ll have to spend an hour on the other end of my brother’s murderous looks that clearly say, “I did not get a degree to work as a heavy furniture mover and WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY THINGS?”
and of course:
3.What’s going to be the best way to clean the floors at my new apartment? (well what did you expect a certified germaphobe to think about?)
So then I thought the embarrassing moment would come while I was unpacking. But it turns out that having a crew of loved ones (God bless them) helping me unpack means that I spend all my time saying, “that goes over here,” “don’t put that THERE,” and “you’re using WHAT to clean wha-?? Step away, just let me do that!” Well, then I was SURE that I’d really feel it as soon as everyone left and I was truly alone in my new place. But instead, when I was on the stepladder, filling up my storage closet or on my hands and knees, scrubbing baseboards, I found myself thinking about other things. Like how I’d kind of miss HEB Stores, Amy’s Ice Cream, and busloads of die-hard fans heading to Longhorn football games on hot, fall Saturdays. Even more often, I was thinking – ok, panicking - about how I now had a higher rent but did NOT have, you know, a JOB. And for some reason, that week, my portfolio was getting a lot of positive feedback from agencies in New York. So when one of my art directors, who was hustling in New York that week, texted me to ask me AGAIN why I won’t consider moving to New York, I’ll admit that for a fraction of a second, I thought, yeah, why is that again?
Luckily, the answer came in loud and clear last Saturday night at the Red, White & Blue Festival at the lake - and not just because my hair, which in Austin would have fallen completely flat by then, still held some curl. But also because as I sat, covered in sticky insect repellent from fake blonde head to sparkly flip-flopped foot, watching fireworks on a blanket 10 feet from the lake and surrounded by gay men, I finally felt it. For the first time since I’d been back, my heart said, I’m home. No embarrassing tears, no dramatic gestures. I’m not saying that I will never be at home somewhere else. I know there are other things, other people, even other cities that can change what makes life feel complete. But right now, right at this very moment, I am home.
Which is why I fully expected an embarrassingly emotional day when I moved back here to Glorious Fake Blonde City. I’d pictured it all in slow motion, set to a song like Chris Daughtry’s Home - the long drive back would be filled with tears and maybe a big dramatic moment where I’d forget all about the steering wheel and throw my arms open and put my hands on my heart.
But when that day finally arrived, and I drove those three hours from Austin to Dallas, there was no crying and no clutching of the heart. Because my mind was completely consumed with only three things:
1.If I change lanes now, will there be enough room behind me for the U-haul truck and my parents’ SUV to change too without causing a 9-car pileup?
2.But if I don’t change lanes now, my friends who are helping me unload will leave and I’ll have to spend an hour on the other end of my brother’s murderous looks that clearly say, “I did not get a degree to work as a heavy furniture mover and WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY THINGS?”
and of course:
3.What’s going to be the best way to clean the floors at my new apartment? (well what did you expect a certified germaphobe to think about?)
So then I thought the embarrassing moment would come while I was unpacking. But it turns out that having a crew of loved ones (God bless them) helping me unpack means that I spend all my time saying, “that goes over here,” “don’t put that THERE,” and “you’re using WHAT to clean wha-?? Step away, just let me do that!” Well, then I was SURE that I’d really feel it as soon as everyone left and I was truly alone in my new place. But instead, when I was on the stepladder, filling up my storage closet or on my hands and knees, scrubbing baseboards, I found myself thinking about other things. Like how I’d kind of miss HEB Stores, Amy’s Ice Cream, and busloads of die-hard fans heading to Longhorn football games on hot, fall Saturdays. Even more often, I was thinking – ok, panicking - about how I now had a higher rent but did NOT have, you know, a JOB. And for some reason, that week, my portfolio was getting a lot of positive feedback from agencies in New York. So when one of my art directors, who was hustling in New York that week, texted me to ask me AGAIN why I won’t consider moving to New York, I’ll admit that for a fraction of a second, I thought, yeah, why is that again?
Luckily, the answer came in loud and clear last Saturday night at the Red, White & Blue Festival at the lake - and not just because my hair, which in Austin would have fallen completely flat by then, still held some curl. But also because as I sat, covered in sticky insect repellent from fake blonde head to sparkly flip-flopped foot, watching fireworks on a blanket 10 feet from the lake and surrounded by gay men, I finally felt it. For the first time since I’d been back, my heart said, I’m home. No embarrassing tears, no dramatic gestures. I’m not saying that I will never be at home somewhere else. I know there are other things, other people, even other cities that can change what makes life feel complete. But right now, right at this very moment, I am home.
5/25/2009
yes
It’s been a little while since I’ve been sappy on this site. But this, being the beginning of life as a grad school survivor, seems like a good time to spout a little saccharin.
The last time I visited my parents, I’d just gotten back from a week of hustling my name and my work to a handful of industry professionals. And their responses were enough to get me to look back again at the last two excruciating years - the gut-punching months of creative pain; the near-death moments of business math ; the bleak homework-fraught weekends and all those onsets of soul-encompassing panic.
Last year, at this time, the only redeeming thought I could draw from all of this was: “Sometimes it just sucks. And I still look ugly when I cry.” What I didn’t write on that day was that I’d spent several weeks working on that post because I'd really, really wanted to tell y’all that I’d come away with some small piece of salvation that made all the pain of that semester worth it. But I couldn’t do it. At least not with any shred of authenticity.
Which is why, this year, I let myself feel encouraged when all of those industry professionals, including the one at this agency, told me that they liked my work - that my work is smart, funny and up to par.
Then, one evening during that visit with my parents, my father asked me, “So you’re almost done with school. Are you glad you did it?” And I looked at him - the man whose emotional and financial support never wavered despite the night I called to wish him a happy anniversary only to end up sobbing and gulping that I “h-h-hated” school, despite the fact that I spent an entire summer telling him that degrees were overrated and maybe I just wouldn’t get one after all – and I answered with a genuine “yes.”
And now, six weeks later, I can still say, “Yes.” Not only because of the things that the professionals said. Not only because of what my teachers (even this teacher) said. Not only because I almost cried when another girl in my program told me that she looks to my advertising writing (mine!) for inspiration. I can say it because at least right now, today, I believe what they say. And I believe that I’ve come a long way and that even though the road ahead will beat down on my soul again, I believe that if I want to badly enough, I can keep going further.
And I believe that the last two years had something to do with that.
The last time I visited my parents, I’d just gotten back from a week of hustling my name and my work to a handful of industry professionals. And their responses were enough to get me to look back again at the last two excruciating years - the gut-punching months of creative pain; the near-death moments of business math ; the bleak homework-fraught weekends and all those onsets of soul-encompassing panic.
Last year, at this time, the only redeeming thought I could draw from all of this was: “Sometimes it just sucks. And I still look ugly when I cry.” What I didn’t write on that day was that I’d spent several weeks working on that post because I'd really, really wanted to tell y’all that I’d come away with some small piece of salvation that made all the pain of that semester worth it. But I couldn’t do it. At least not with any shred of authenticity.
Which is why, this year, I let myself feel encouraged when all of those industry professionals, including the one at this agency, told me that they liked my work - that my work is smart, funny and up to par.
Then, one evening during that visit with my parents, my father asked me, “So you’re almost done with school. Are you glad you did it?” And I looked at him - the man whose emotional and financial support never wavered despite the night I called to wish him a happy anniversary only to end up sobbing and gulping that I “h-h-hated” school, despite the fact that I spent an entire summer telling him that degrees were overrated and maybe I just wouldn’t get one after all – and I answered with a genuine “yes.”
And now, six weeks later, I can still say, “Yes.” Not only because of the things that the professionals said. Not only because of what my teachers (even this teacher) said. Not only because I almost cried when another girl in my program told me that she looks to my advertising writing (mine!) for inspiration. I can say it because at least right now, today, I believe what they say. And I believe that I’ve come a long way and that even though the road ahead will beat down on my soul again, I believe that if I want to badly enough, I can keep going further.
And I believe that the last two years had something to do with that.
BAGEL: CREAM CHEESE:: MAN: __________ (you finish it because, guess what y’all? I never have to take another GRE again!)
Right about the time I wrote the last post on here, my last semester of grad school suddenly turned from spending weekends gallivanting around downtown (and spending weekdays planning said gallivanting) to a mad, mad blur of headline writing, PhotoShop fumbling, InDesign layouts, screaming at iWeb, stalking industry contacts, and a few token panic episodes. I had one foot in Austin and school and the other foot in Dallas and job networking. And straddling 180 miles of Texas country, it turns out, turns me into an even bigger ditz than the one I was that time I stood in front of the door to the stairwell, wondering why in the hell I couldn’t find the elevator down button.
Which means that I’ve spent the last two months on an extended, two-city ditz-crime spree. There was the day, for example, that I decided to stop by Einstein Bagels to pick up some cream cheese. It wasn’t the shop that I usually go to, but they’re all about the same, right? So you can imagine my shock to find that there were no cream cheese coolers in this one.
But I’d come to Einstein’s to get some cream cheese and I WAS GOING TO GET SOME CREAM CHEESE. So I went up to the counter to get it there.
Him: How can I help you?
Me: (brightly, of course) Hi, I’m just looking for the cream cheese.
Pause as man looks at me for a long time. So long that I start wondering if I have spinach AND lipstick on my front teeth.
Him: (totally straight-faced) We don’t have cream cheese.
The voice inside of my head: AN EINSTEIN’S BAGELS? WITHOUT CREAM CHEESE? Where do I call to get THIS taken care of? This is like a butterfly without wings, a car without wheels, a man without his-
Him: Now, there’s a bagel place next door. They probably have cream cheese.
(Which is when the God-given ability to evaluate and deduce that got me into graduate school finally kicked in. I looked at the food they were serving. Green beans? I looked at the menu. Rotisserie Chicken? I looked at the guy’s uniform. Boston Mar-)
I gasp and put both hands over my mouth.
Me: (like a genius) I walked into Boston Market!
And then the entire restaurant got completely silent and the diners watched in wonder while the universe pushed the slow-motion button and I skulked right out of Boston Market to go next door.
And that, y’all, was just one of the many, many events that could’ve ended with the graduate school police handcuffing me, throwing me into a big yellow school bus and putting me on trial for STILL TRYING TO ACT LIKE SHE BELONGS IN GRADUATE SCHOOL.
Which means that I’ve spent the last two months on an extended, two-city ditz-crime spree. There was the day, for example, that I decided to stop by Einstein Bagels to pick up some cream cheese. It wasn’t the shop that I usually go to, but they’re all about the same, right? So you can imagine my shock to find that there were no cream cheese coolers in this one.
But I’d come to Einstein’s to get some cream cheese and I WAS GOING TO GET SOME CREAM CHEESE. So I went up to the counter to get it there.
Him: How can I help you?
Me: (brightly, of course) Hi, I’m just looking for the cream cheese.
Pause as man looks at me for a long time. So long that I start wondering if I have spinach AND lipstick on my front teeth.
Him: (totally straight-faced) We don’t have cream cheese.
The voice inside of my head: AN EINSTEIN’S BAGELS? WITHOUT CREAM CHEESE? Where do I call to get THIS taken care of? This is like a butterfly without wings, a car without wheels, a man without his-
Him: Now, there’s a bagel place next door. They probably have cream cheese.
(Which is when the God-given ability to evaluate and deduce that got me into graduate school finally kicked in. I looked at the food they were serving. Green beans? I looked at the menu. Rotisserie Chicken? I looked at the guy’s uniform. Boston Mar-)
I gasp and put both hands over my mouth.
Me: (like a genius) I walked into Boston Market!
And then the entire restaurant got completely silent and the diners watched in wonder while the universe pushed the slow-motion button and I skulked right out of Boston Market to go next door.
And that, y’all, was just one of the many, many events that could’ve ended with the graduate school police handcuffing me, throwing me into a big yellow school bus and putting me on trial for STILL TRYING TO ACT LIKE SHE BELONGS IN GRADUATE SCHOOL.
2/23/2009
The way to my mother’s heart is through the cacao
Last Christmas morning, as I unwrapped a 10 oz. box of GODIVA chocolate and a simple, silver framed heart with the message, “Break the rules or you’ll miss all the fun,” I squealed with delight and my mother’s jaw dropped.
“Oh my gosh. And that box is ALL DARK CHOCOLATE.”
“Well, of course. I only eat dark chocolate.”
“Yes, I know that. I just can’t believe he knows you so well that he could give you such a thoughtful, personal gift.”
“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Mom? You’re not the only one who buys me fine chocolate.”
A few days later, as we passed by all of the GODIVA gift boxes at Macy's, she couldn’t resist checking out the current chocolatier market prices (since you know, she usually sticks to buying this). And when she turned back around to look at me, I could see the change in her face.
It’s a very special day when your mother realizes that your gay boyfriend is more than just a fling.
“Oh my gosh. And that box is ALL DARK CHOCOLATE.”
“Well, of course. I only eat dark chocolate.”
“Yes, I know that. I just can’t believe he knows you so well that he could give you such a thoughtful, personal gift.”
“What kind of relationship do you think we have, Mom? You’re not the only one who buys me fine chocolate.”
A few days later, as we passed by all of the GODIVA gift boxes at Macy's, she couldn’t resist checking out the current chocolatier market prices (since you know, she usually sticks to buying this). And when she turned back around to look at me, I could see the change in her face.
It’s a very special day when your mother realizes that your gay boyfriend is more than just a fling.
And even if the bitches did catch up to me, he promised that he would throw on his pumps, drive all the way down to Austin and kick some serious ass
Email exchange last Friday between me and my gay boyfriend as we discussed my going to a gay bar that night to celebrate Mardi Gras:
But my question is what do the pre-op trannies flash to get beads? And as a straight, small-boobed girl, will I be able to get any beads?
If they won’t give you any beads, then just take some off the bitches’ necks! Then run as fast as possible.
2/11/2009
Damn, does this mean I'll NEVER be Britney?
Recently said to me by a school friend (on behalf of a handful of friends I’ve known for almost 2 years now):
Not bad. It takes some people three years to finally figure that out.
You're NEVER going to tell us, are you? No matter how hard we try, you’re never going to tell us about your secret life with your secret boyfriends and your secret weekends.
Not bad. It takes some people three years to finally figure that out.
1/21/2009
Reeking of Sweet
Yesterday, as I walked down Guadalupe Street and wished for the 639th time that I could roll a great big stick of 100-prescription-strength deodorant over the entire street, I braced myself for the usual waves of revulsion that pulse through my soul at the start of every new semester - one hundred and sixteen days of endless academic drudgery.
But as I bravely put one foot in front of another, instead of wanting to catch a plane to a 16-week vacation on a beach with white sand and turquoise water, I realized that I felt perfectly fine right there on that stinky street. In fact, I felt extremely thankful. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was on my way to watch the presidential inauguration of a man who I believe can lead a nation of people who are making great strides to rise above intolerance. I was also on my way to start my very last semester as a girl who didn’t always believe in her own ability to actually earn a Master of Arts – a degree that is now a short four months away. Guadalupe never smelled so sweet.
But as I bravely put one foot in front of another, instead of wanting to catch a plane to a 16-week vacation on a beach with white sand and turquoise water, I realized that I felt perfectly fine right there on that stinky street. In fact, I felt extremely thankful. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was on my way to watch the presidential inauguration of a man who I believe can lead a nation of people who are making great strides to rise above intolerance. I was also on my way to start my very last semester as a girl who didn’t always believe in her own ability to actually earn a Master of Arts – a degree that is now a short four months away. Guadalupe never smelled so sweet.
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