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 in any other situation, OF COURSE I'd write two paragraphs about the cowboy hats

Recently, I had to get a letter of recommendation from a faculty member. I wanted to ask my writing teacher (who was also my creative advertising teacher last semester) not only because she’s a writer, but also because I was pretty sure she’d write something a little more specific than “bebe Me is a fine student in a fine program.” Of course this is also the teacher who will still look at fifty of my taglines and approve ONE of them. With reservation. Fortunately, she seems to genuinely like some of my other writing – most recently, a humorous essay that she assigned and that I wrote in the style of this blog. Oh yes, that would be a four-paged, single-spaced essay of COTTON CANDY FOR THE BRAIN. But it was her response to my cotton candy for the brain that gave me the courage to ask her to recommend me as someone who could maybe one day have a scintilla of potential to write for advertising.

And the Gods of Advertising must have been looking out for me because she was happy to write one for me. My feeling that she’d write a thoughtful letter was confirmed when she asked me to write two paragraphs for her: one about my greatest strength and one about my greatest accomplishment. Since owning two cowboy hats with attachable tiaras probably doesn’t count as a strength or an accomplishment in this situation, I sat down at my blank laptop screen and tried to figure out my greatest strength.

I’d answered this questions plenty of times for job interviews so I had a short (very short) list of things I usually said: annoying optimism, the ability to see the “big picture,” the ability to see many possibilities for every problem and that I can write pretty well. But as I considered all of my options, I realized that this past year had quite possibly killed all of my strengths and their little dogs too. All I could think about was last spring, when I told everyone that it would probably be best for me and all of my creative partners if I died before critique because I couldn’t think of any more possibilities to solve the problems in our campaigns, because I didn't seem to have even one smart headline coming from wherever it is that any of my mediocre headline writing comes from and because any future for me in the “big picture” of advertising was about as real as a three-headed dragon.

And for a minute or so, I felt a bit sad. But then, like any good eternal optimist, I remembered that this was a different semester and a fresh beginning. Surely, something had changed for the better. And then it hit me - I now thought that any future for me in advertising was about as real as a one-headed dragon. And everybody knows that a one-headed dragon is way more realistic than a three-headed one. And maybe the next semester, it would be a green dragon instead of a spotted teal one. Glorious! So, feeling relieved and much more like myself again, I wrote her a paragraph about my optimism.

It must’ve been believable because my teacher really did write a lovely letter for me. And on the last day of class, when she wished us luck on our careers as advertising copywriters, I’m sure it was pure coincidence that she looked straight at me when she added, “or a career as another kind of writer.” I’m absolutely sure of it. Because I am an unrelenting optimist. Either that or an extremely good blonde. And bloody hell, I’m damn proud to be both.

Quote of the week

I kind of like my boobs.

-My art director (different one from this art director)

Ok, ok. So it was the end of a loooong week before final critique during which we all spend too many stressed hours in the creative lab, saying and doing stupid things. Also, she wasn't actually talking about HER boobs so much as the ones she implied in one of her executions. But how were we supposed to know that?

P.S.

Here I am pursuing a future of writing in some sort of professional capacity and the only adult books that have influenced my life in a significant way are chick lit and an out-of-print self-help book. Clearly, I need to take myself more seriously. It’s time to start reading and writing about things that will change people’s lives. Very, very serious things.

So I’m going to start now with a thought-provoking piece on a very current event, that event being the celebration of National Cotton Candy Day:

It all began in the 1400s when Italians discovered that they could make a fantastic dessert by melting sugar and spinning it with a fork. Over the next four years, spun sugar emerged as a popular dessert for very rich people. In 1899, a couple of guys from Tennessee decided it was about time that all the regular people be able to enjoy a little sugar. So they invented a big machine that would use centrifugal force to turn sugar, flavoring and coloring into what they decided to call Fairy Floss. In 1904, the guys took Fairy Floss to the St. Louis World Fair and the sugary star was born. In 1920, someone decided to start calling it cotton candy. Cotton candy comes in pink, blue, rainbow and probably a lot of other colors and if you were to eat it for every meal, every day, you’d have a lot of cavities.

Serious. I used the word centrifugal.

The last time I'll post an assignment from my writing class

A short list of books that have had a significant impact on my life

1. A Light in the Attic (Shel Silverstein)

Oh how I loved this book when I was little – these crazy stories/rhymes made me laugh and laugh and it was my first experience with words that were used not only to tell a story, but also as devices (rhyming, assonance, onomatopoeia, etc.).

2. Ramona the Pest (Beverly Cleary)

This was the first “big book” I read. “Big books” were interesting! Ramona was my girl for years – I was just as frustrated with grown-ups and even though I was more shy and less impulsive than her, I shared some of the same urges to make trouble.

3. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (Judy Blume)

Every girl’s rite of passage! This was only the beginning of my love for stories that center on the inimitable experience of being a girl. But as I read it over and over again as I got older, it also helped me figure out that one of things that makes Judy Blume’s writing so engaging is her ability to use ordinary details to illustrate reality.

4. Jobsmarts for Twentysomethings: A Street-smart Script for Career Success (Bradley Richardson)

When I thought I was going to die because I had no idea how to find a job as a recent graduate with a ridiculous degree, this book gave me the courage to start networking and to feel confident about finding a job I liked and knowing how to act professionally. The language has just enough attitude to speak to twentysomethings, but the content is solid and helpful. Everything this guy said would happen happened. I bought this book for all of my friends and family until it went out of print.

5. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)

There is plenty of badly written chick lit out there with appallingly cliché characters and stupid plots (which I admit to reading anyway), but Confessions of a Shopaholic is not one of them. Even if the content seems fluffy (shopping), the characters have depth and the writing is never awkward. Either that or I just really identify with British, self-deprecating humor.

6. Sloppy Firsts (Megan McCafferty)

I am possibly the oldest teen fiction enthusiast on this Earth – well, besides the authors who write it. When I was a teen, I read serious adult books (like Chaim Potok novels or biographies about classical music composers), but as an adult, I started reading young adult novels because I love the concept of self-discovery – this thing that teens are doing every day. There is something really invigorating about immersing myself in reading about the painful and exhilarating feelings surrounding it and Megan McCafferty does it best. I vividly remember the first time I read this book because I’d have to keep putting the book down and saying (out loud to myself), “How the hell did she get inside my brain?”

7. Dreamland (Sarah Dessen)

I read this teen novel right at a time where I was grappling with a situation in which a good friend of mine was about to marry her horrible, toxic, abusive boyfriend. I was so frustrated because I just couldn’t understand how someone got to that place. This book offered an interesting perspective from a girl that let herself be abused for a long time. My friend still married the bastard and I still couldn’t reach her, but I felt a little more settled that I understood at least some of the reasons why girls fall prey to that poison.

I’d pay with cash, but then I wouldn’t get my advantage miles

It’s that time of the semester. When I have so much to do that the more I try to motivate myself to do it, the more I want to sit in front of the TV and watch Frasier reruns. The time when my usual love of knowing that there is not just one answer is replaced by my wanting to scream at my creative professors, “IS THIS IDEA RIGHT OR WRONG? I HAVE A DEADLINE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!” And it’s also the time when I start going to a lot of print shops. I wish I could say that I’m cool enough to go to the funkier, less-known, independent print shops. But once an art director sends me a file that’s ready to print, I will immediately go to the nearest shop that’s open at the time so that I can print and mount my ads as soon as possible. Just in case on the day before critique, the universe decides to curse my hands with an uncontrollable shake as I try to cut straight, clean lines with that damn X-ACTO knife.

So I often find myself at a 24-hour Fed-ex Kinko’s. Which is all fine and good until it’s time to pay. Because the credit card machines there don’t let you sign outside of the box. Every single time, it makes me start over. The first time the girl behind the counter said matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t like it when you go outside the box,” I felt so stifled by the bloody box and the girl’s bored expression that I almost threw down the stylus so that I could run outside into the parking lot and tell all the people to RUN FOR IT OR YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF THE DAMN BOX!

I still get that urge every time I’m there. And the urge is even stronger when I’ve spent the last couple of weeks biting my tongue in front of professors and worrying about eleventh-hour hand tremors. But I don’t ever give in because the last thing I need right now is for a bevy of very controlled, meticulous Kinko’s security officers to drag me into a back room, subdue me and then flag my name on all of their records: WATCH OUT FOR THIS CUSTOMER. CANNOT CONTROL HER OWN SIGNATURE.

My cousins can beat up your cousins

My mother’s oldest sister had five kids. They are a loud, rowdy, affectionate family who gives a group hug the same way a St. Bernard accidentally knocks you down when it’s just trying to say hello. And just as you’ve managed to get yourself off the ground, they’ll finish it off with an enthusiastic booty smack and a wholehearted “BOOYAH!”

Last month, I spent a week in Canada with my five cousins, my uncle, my grandmother, my parents and other various members of my family because on November 3rd, my mother’s oldest sister, my aunt, passed away unexpectedly. In the days following, our family did our best to understand that this lovely lady who meant so many different things to so many different people was no longer just on the other side of an email or a phone call. But even as our hearts ached for the daughter, mother, sister and aunt who loved learning so much that she got three bachelors of science, our smiles persisted. Because how could we NOT smile at the memory of her being so engrossed in reading whatever most recently caught her brain’s attention, that we could sing and dance around her in big purple cow costumes and she’d never even notice? We smiled because when she and her sisters were all starting to leave their small French-Canadian town for “big cities” like, you know, WINNIPEG, my aunt was the one who educated her younger sisters on the difference between a friendly man and a sleazy perv. We smiled because she was endearingly straight-forward and because she was the only one who knew how to smooth over the occasional collisions that occur in an extended family that includes more than a couple strong and opinionated personalities. And we smiled because she loved to smile.

My aunt made me feel special from the time she’d send me hand-sewn nightgowns with my name embroidered across the front every year to the time in my twenties when she made me feel really special and yet totally normal during a time when I was especially worried that my not-so-conservative choices would alienate my entire extended family. Of course, it didn’t. And in the last couple of years, her kids have made a particularly conscious effort to embrace me unconditionally So I smiled and cried as I watched my cousins say their final goodbyes to her resting body at the funeral home. Shoulder to shoulder, arms embracing, crying, laughing, whispering memories, jokes and love – a testament of their mother’s sweet, funny, loving spirit.

And for the rest of the week, I wanted to lift and support my loud, rowdy cousins and uncle. But as usual, they gave me more collective love (and smacks) than I felt I could give back in return. Because they don’t know any other way to live. And oh, how I love them – as much as one little, sometimes prissy, not especially loud-voiced, non-booty-smackin’ person can.

Friend quote of the week via email. And just for her, count how many times I can write Ben Folds in a 60-word post.

“I am a Ben Folds evangelist!”*

"...I think I cold live happily on a steady diet of Doritos and his last 4
albums."

-Ben Fold’s most dedicated fan after I told her that I’d just taken my first step onto the Ben Folds bandwagon

*That’s how she wrote it, but what I read was, “I am a BEN FOLDS EVANGELIST!!”

Forgive me, for I know not what I write

Three of the greatest feelings in the world are: stepping into a perfect gold stiletto, biting into a Tamborina NOKA Chocolate truffle. and finally remembering a word that has been taking over your life because it’s been sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue for weeks and refusing to roll off of it.

Yesterday, I almost experienced the last one. I say “almost’ because I had to use the one look reverse dictionary (this, the glorious tool that changed my life this year) in order to “remember” the word “malapropism.” And the reason I was so urgently trying to remember it was because I committed a malapropism right here on this very blog just a few weeks ago*. And ever since I realized the error of my ways and finished cringing and blushing furiously here at my keyboard, I’ve been debating whether or not to correct it or to keep pretending I was being intentionally, but not necessarily skillfully, subversive.

I still haven’t decided whether or not to change it and because I am just THAT crazy, the debate in my head will probably keep raging on until some other ridiculous issue takes over the part of my brain that handles ridiculous issues. But the good news is that because of my idiocy, I almost experienced one of the greatest feelings in the world.

The glass, my friends, is always half full.


*Of course I’m not going to tell you. But if you noticed it too, I’ll tell you if you’re right. Or, if I’m really lucky (because a good, healthy cringe and blush is just what I need sometimes), you’ll discover yet another one that I haven’t even noticed.

One of us didn’t grow up in Texas

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.