1. I have awesome in-laws. My brother-in-law Teil is my dentist, and my sister-in-law Van is my optometrist, so you know I’ve got the hook-up as far as teeth and eyes go. But I also have to say that my brother-in-law Daniel has saved our lives a million times this year, because he has experience fixing the kind of things that randomly break in houses that were built in the ‘80s, like ours was. He’s helped us fix our shower, our water heater, our dryer, and all kinds of other stuff within this past year alone. For that, I thank him and pledge to continue doing shots and karaoke with him at all Teil and Van’s future parties.

2. I’m so thankful that the Internet exists and that it contains kind people who are willing to share their experiences in order to help others. This year I decided to start riding a bike, after 21 years of not having done so. And I had so much drama trying to find the right bike and the right bicycle seat. Drama and pain, literally. So I took my problems to the Internet, read a bunch of forums, and found out that: a) I probably have a fractured tailbone, and b) I needed a split bike seat.  I bought a cheap split seat and it changed my freaking life, and now I’m enjoying riding my bike so much that it makes me want to cry (almost as much as the tailbone pain made me want to cry before I bought the new seat). So: Thanks, helpful strangers on the Internet.

3. I’m glad I’ve had extra time to spend with my family this year. Particularly with my cousins Andrea and Helen, my brother Erik and his family, and my dad. And my kids, too. I mean, I live with my kids, of course, but I’m grateful that working part-time this year has given me a few extra hours with each of them. And I’m grateful that my family members are generally awesome and value the same things Dat and I do: good food, good drinks, and standing around telling funny stories. Is there anything more important in life?

4. So I’m working from this list I’ve kept on my iPhone throughout the year – a list called “Thankful for” on the Notes app – and one of the items says “Pocket Frogs.” Apparently, at one point, I felt grateful for an iPhone app game about colored frogs hopping around on lily pads. I can’t explain why now, but I’m guessing it has something to do with OCD and stress relief, so let’s just leave it at that. Thanks, little frogs of varying colors and designs.

5. The list also says “Cats,” and I’m guessing I wanted to say something about how Starbuck and Toby, my cats, brighten up my life. I think it’s because they stayed by me (literally, pressed against me on my bed) while I was finishing up my last novel.

6. I’m grateful for my husband, as always. Not least because he spent a really long time very patiently helping me find the right bike and bike seat.

7. You’re always supposed to be thankful for your job, if you have one, and for your good health, if you have that. And so I am.

8. Something not on the list: The other day, my oldest son Paul (not a pseudonym, not anymore) was complaining to me. He was, like, wearing a tie and drinking a cup of coffee, driving his car to work or to the University. (No, he wasn’t, but that’s how you can imagine him with 75% accuracy now.) On this recent day, he was actually in the back seat of the mini van, complaining to the rest of us about the crappiest Christmas he’d ever had. What was so crappy about it? I only gave him three gifts, and they were all books, and one of them was a book he already owned.

I was embarrassed by that story at the time. Also, I was a little annoyed by my son’s spoiled brattiness in bringing it up. He was talking about one of my first years as a single mom, when I had every reason to be frugal and forgetful. But, thinking about his story the next day, I was grateful. You know why? Because, if that’s the worst Christmas he has to complain about, I must be doing a pretty good job as a parent. Right? And thank God I’m able to do that.

Also, I’ve been spending a lot of extra time with my family, which makes me happy. And I would say more about that, but I feel like it’s too private. I feel… reclusive.

My X-mas List (Meaning stuff I want, not stuff I’m getting for other people)

1. Dark purple Schwinn Ranger bike. My husband is going to buy me this. He already said so.

2. New Kindle to replace the old one that my son dropped twice and that now no longer connects to Amazon wirelessly.

3. I wrote “bookstore” third on the list I’ve been keeping on my phone. What does that mean? A gift certificate? Maybe an Amazon gift certificate so I can buy Kindle books and MP3s, since I do that constantly, anyway. I don’t want to own a bookstore, so it can’t mean that.

4. I wanted this dog named Sidney that lives at my cousin’s house. My cousin Helen is one of those people who likes lots of pets and lives in a neighborhood where that’s allowed, so people dump dogs and cats on her. Out of all her current dogs, Sidney’s my favorite. She’s a black and white pointer type, really smart and affectionate. But she’s hard for Helen to handle because she likes to jump the fence. Sidney listens to me pretty well. I wish she was my dog, but my husband doesn’t want another pet. Normally I’d just ignore him and get the pet, anyway, but I’ve already done that twice and I think that’s the limit for un-agreed-upon pet-getting in our marriage. Meanwhile, Helen really wishes I’d come get Sidney, who won’t stop jumping the fence. Maybe Helen should start a blog and put a x-mas list on it.

5. Toyota FJ in green or orange

6. Video camera for making YouTube videos

7. Rollerskates

8. Rockband 3. I’m going to buy this for our family in October, when it’s released. I already said so.

9. Some black lace-up boots that I saw at Nordstrom, even though at the time I said they were too much like the ones I wore throughout high school. I’ve since reconciled myself to the fact that no one remembers or cares what I wore in the ’80s, so I should embrace whatever fads make me happy.

10. Industrial strength ice shaver for home snow-cone making.

11. My Little Ponies. I saw some at Walgreens the other day and they looked nice.

A One-Act Play About My Husband’s Misunderestimating of My Taste in Music

Dat: I do *so* understand your taste in music. In fact, I downloaded an album that I know you’ll love, because they sound exactly like Led Zeppelin.

Me: Yeah, right. I doubt that.

[Dat and Gwen cross to Stage Left, where Dat plays Wolfmother album on the laptop.]

Me: They sound absolutely nothing like Led Zeppelin. How can you say that they do, or that you know what kind of music I like, or that you’ve seen the depths of my soul? These people sound so little like Led Zeppelin that it makes me question your ability to love me. In fact, this last song, “White Unicorn”? Sounds exactly like Triumph.

Dat [sobbing]: I’m sorry! Forgive me! Stop bitching at me!

[Dat runs off stage.]

[Gwen saves “White Unicorn” song to a flash drive, puts flash drive in her pocket.]

[Curtain.]

FIN

1. Lost weight but then gained weight, trying to lose weight, yo-yo-dieting is not good, Gilad, Sharon Mann, CathE, Shimmy, I mean I still like myself no matter what size I am so don’t worry, but I don’t wanna buy new pants, blah blah blah. Carrot cake.

2. Something happened and then I felt sorry for myself and then I told myself not to and now I’m moving on.

3. Publicity. Writing. Day job. Stress. Pause for gratitude and acknowledgment of good fortune. Publicity. Writing. Day job. Stress.

We went to the book store today.

My boyfriend (fiance) was really excited and he took a picture of my novel on the Noteworthy Paperbacks table. But I wasn’t excited about the books on the table, because I had a lot on my mind. I’m finishing up my second novel right now. My editor sent my agent and me a mock-up of the cover for this second novel, and it looks way more beautiful than I could have imagined it. Whoever does my covers and picks the fonts — I love y’all. Thanks for being awesome.

So I was thinking about that and thinking about sales figures and thinking about scheduling. And then we got home and guess what came in the mail. An advanced copy of my next children’s book! So now I’m thinking about that, too.

We might get laid off soon.

And it’ll be okay, as long as they hurry up and let us know, as soon as they know. The not-knowing is worse than the knowing, I always feel.

I get to read some poems tomorrow.

And I’m kind of excited about that. I haven’t read poems out loud in a while, and it’s a slightly different mindset from the fiction or the prose.

Thinking about it makes me want to make another chapbook. This time, I want to make one in Kindle format, because

Oh, my god, forget whatever else I was saying…

I got a Kindle for Christmas! A Kindle!

My boyfriend, Tad, said he had a lot of trouble acquiring my gift this year. And I was puzzled, and hoped he hadn’t gone through too much trouble.

And then I called Tad’s friend Mark (psuedonym) to see if Mark thought that Tad would like the gift that I bought him. (Nintendo DS Lite, Pokemon edition.) And Mark said yes, that he, oops he means Tad would like that very much.

Then Mark said, “It’s so funny that you called about that, because Tad asked me if I thought you’d like your gift, too.”

And I was like, “Really?” And then I realized that Mark was being an info-hoarder and a tease, and potentially a spoiler, too, so I said, “Mark, don’t tell me what Tad got me, or I’ll drive to your house and kill you.”

And he promised not to tell me and ruin my surprise. Then, right before he hung up, he blurted, “I just have to tell you that all my friends who have what Tad got you, play it all the time!!!”

And I yelled “Damn youuuuuu!!!!!” but he’d already hung up, so I had nothing left to do but spend the next 52 hours wondering what in god’s name Tad could have bought. Something to play. Something that Mark’s friends would play all the time. Hmm. A Rock Band thing? No, because we have all that. A Nintendo DS Lite, Pokemon edition? No, because I’d spent weeks pretending I didn’t even know what that was (to throw Tad off track).

An electric guitar? No.
A PSP? No.
A… board game? Maybe.

Tad got me a board game. But a board game that was hard to get. Hmm. An old Parker Brothers ouija board? A special-edition Trivial Pursuit?

I couldn’t guess. I gave up trying.

And then, Christmas morning (Okay, I’m lying, it was Christmas Eve, well before midnight, but), Tad handed me my gift and said, “This is something you’ve been deserving for a long time, baby.”

A vacation? No.
A vacation day that I don’t spend working? No.
A set of 800-thread-count sheets?

No! I opened my gift and it was a freaking Kindle!

Seriously, I almost cried. I think I did cry, a little. Because that’s the kind of thing that, if Jay Leno walked up on the street and said, “Would you like a Kindle?” I would of course accept, but that, at the same time, I’d never ever expect someone to buy me, or ever imagine buying for myself.

So he gave it to me, and I won’t get into a long explanation of how it works, because you can just click the link or google it and find out, but, long story short, it worked so beautifully that I immediately downloaded and read 5 books. Within, like, 3 days. It was so insane. I was taking it everywhere and just tearing up the reading. And the only reason I’m not reading more books on it right now is because I’m supposed to be finishing my own book, so I forceably took the Kindle away from myself. I mean, I took it out of my purse. But, as soon as I finish this book I’m writing, the Kindle goes back into my purse and I’ll read 8,000 more books on it.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “OMG, Tad is the nicest boyfriend in the world.” Either that, or you’re thinking, “Buffalo wings would taste so sexy right now, I’d even eat them cold.” But, either way, you’re only partially right.

A week after Christmas, we were commuting to work. Tad was driving, and I was reading the hell out of my Kindle. After 40 minutes of that, I turned to Tad and said, “Baby, do you mind that I’m reading instead of talking to you while you drive?”

He said, “Baby, why do you think I bought you the Kindle?”

Rim shot, people yelling “BURN!” But then he said just kidding. But I knew he was only mostly just kidding.

But, best of all? I didn’t even care. I went back to reading my YA sci-fi novel, and I was happy.

Yesterday we gave the cats a new, expensive scratching post. They weren’t as grateful as you might imagine. But that’s how cats are – it takes a while for them to appreciate new things.

Last night I was petting Toby on my bed and I realized that, not only was his fur kind of oily, but he also stank. He stank like greasy fur and the cat litter lodged between his toes.

“Let’s just give him a bath right now, I guess,” I said to my boyfriend/fiance. My boyfriend was happy because he always wants to give the cats baths, but I’ve been telling him no for the past month because it’s been too cold.

We took Toby into the bathroom and closed the door. My boyfriend turned on the water and began to fill the Cat Bathing Bucket. Suddenly, Toby realized what was happening and began to cry.

“OW,” he said. “OWR!” Really loud and vibrate-y, like a siren. I hate it when he makes that noise. It breaks my heart. But he needed a bath.

He ran and hid behind the toilet while we prepared the water. When I went to retrieve him, he clawed at the tile floor, trying to hold on. “OWR!”

I felt so terrible. We washed him fast, and he cried and tried to scramble out of the tub. Usually he doesn’t hate baths that much, but for some reason, he was scared as hell this time. Clumps of dirty hair rolled off his body. We shampooed twice with Jonathan Frieda’s shampoo for blonde women and rinsed him as quickly and thoroughly as we could. I squeezed him dry. He cried. We rubbed him with two towels and swaddled him with a third. He stopped crying. He didn’t want to admit that he enjoyed the swaddling, but he always does. We let him go and he shook like a dog, then ran to hide in the laundry hamper.

(I’m lying to you. What I’m calling a “laundry hamper” is actually a laundry basket filled with and surrounded by dirty clothes, all mounded under my antique walnut vanity.)

It was Starbuck’s turn, and she knew it, and she wasn’t happy. My boyfriend had to push her from under the bed with our broom. She didn’t make any noise – just stood there looking like the saddest person on Earth while we washed her with the same blonde shampoo. (It was the only shampoo I had without excess fragrance or body-building properties.) She also liked the swaddling but pretended not to. (They make sad faces, but their ears are no longer pressed back.)

No matter how hard they licked themselves, they couldn’t get dry. So my boyfriend and I hauled them back into the bathroom prison and turned on the blow dryer. Last summer, the blow dryer scared the crap out of them. But now, in winter, they liked it. They didn’t want to like it, but they did.

They didn’t speak to us for the rest of the night.

This morning, though, they meowed at me when I woke up. Later, I sat down to put on my tights and they swarmed to get petted.

I swear to you, they had these attitudes like, “Pet us! Feel how soft and not-greasy we are! Feel the difference! We’re clean!”

I want to believe that they understand, in the end, that taking a bath makes them feel better. But I’m a realist, so I know they’re probably too dumb. They probably just think they got clean by licking themselves a lot after all that torture.

Some people celebrate Spring, instead.

A fellow carpooler asked us, “Do y’all celebrate Christmas? Have you got all your shopping done?”

And I thought it was nice of her not to assume that we all did celebrate Christmas – a carful of Caucasians in Texas. It was considerate of her, or at least polite. It probably looks rude or nosy in print, here, but I promise you the way she said it sounded perfectly friendly and polite.

So the other day, I asked a rider the same thing. “Are you celebrating Christmas this year?”

“Yes,” he said pleasantly.

“Have you got all your shopping done, then?” I asked. Just making conversation.

He exhaled audibly. “Actually, I don’t really celebrate Christmas.” He told me his ethnicity and the country where he was born. It was one where they don’t do Christmas. He explained that, as his wife and kids were American, he was obliged to do the secular stuff that everyone else in our neighborhood does. But really, Christmas wasn’t a real holiday for him.

“Oh,” I said. “So… Do you do Ramadan, instead?” I pronounced Ramadan two or three times, all wrong. I’ve seen it written but don’t often hear it aloud.

“No,” he said. “That’s the Saudis. We celebrate….”

He didn’t say the name of what they celebrated, but he explained it. Spring solstice (equinox?), for two weeks. With fire and symbolic colors and baskets of things that start with the letter C. And visiting friends and family. And that was their major holiday for the whole year. It sounded nice, but he sounded sad. Of course, because he can’t really celebrate that holiday here. He can’t take two weeks off work, even though his boss would probably be empathetic. There are always meetings and things that he can’t miss. And even if he could take two weeks off, no one around him could. He said their celebration was supposed to start on a Wednesday and progress with different activities each day. He said, “I try to do most of it, in small ways, on the Saturday nearest the Solstice.”

I said, “That sucks.” I tried to imagine living some place where no one celebrated Christmas. I’m sure I could swing it, if I felt like I was making a better life for my spouse and kids that way. But of course, I’d still be a little sad each December.

Because I’m self-centered, I made him change the subject and tell me about the food of his people. I like food a lot, and I’m always on the look-out for new food to try. He described his cuisine in detail and told me which restaurant in town was his favorite. As he was an educated and well-traveled person, he was able to describe things pretty well and find comparisons within our overlapping experiences. He was polite and candid, and I asked him if it’d be okay for me to show up at his people’s restaurant dressed as I was. He said yes, that all flavors of people went there and no one cared. In exchange, I gave him directions to my favorite Turkish restaurant in town. He’d been to Turkey and loved the food.

You think I’m going to end this section with some smarmy conclusion about people bonding across ethnicities. But I’m not. I just wanted to share with you that I learned about a new kind of food, and that I’m always down with other people who like to eat.

Some people celebrate Santa Claus.

Last night we went to my sister-in-law-to-be’s house for her yearly Thai food dinner and gift opening. (She’s not Thai, but her mother-in-law is, luckily for all of us who love curry.) So we were there, me and my fiance and all of his family and a few family friends, and I was sitting next to someone who happened to be a Catholic, and she turned to me and said, “So what are your boyfriend’s parents doing on Christmas?”

I said, “Nothing. They don’t celebrate Christmas.”

She gasped. “Why not?”

Me: “Because they’re not Christian.”

Her: “Yeah, but they still celebrate Christmas. Right??”

Me: “No.”

Her: “Why not?”

Me: “Because they’re not Christian.”

Her: [blank look]

Me: “You know – they don’t believe in Christ. So they don’t celebrate Christ’s birthday….”

Her: “Yeah, but still… Santa Claus. Hello – SANTA CLAUS.”

Me, quickly, mercifully deciding not to explain that Santa Claus doesn’t exist where they were born: “Okay. This is their Christmas, today. They’re celebrating Santa Claus right now.”

Her, with audible relief: “Oh!”

Really, they’re going to celebrate Santa Claus Day by crossing the state line and gambling. But I didn’t want to confuse the issue any more. She changed the subject, then, to my uterus and how soon she could expect to see a baby pop out of it. That conversation was just like the one portrayed above, but longer and with more in-depth explanations.

We went to Hobby Slobby last night and, man, were there a lot of shoppers in a bad mood. I felt bad for them – why in gosh’s name do people do things that make them unhappy for Christmas?

We went to get packing for the baked goods we will make in our Seasonal Elf Bakery Sweatshop. My kids wanted to look at ornaments. They pretended they wanted to h8 on them (“Black ornaments? What’s this for, an emo tree?”) but then I realized that they secretly wanted a Christmas tree. (“Mom, if we don’t get this for our tree, then I’m gonna buy it and put it on the end of a stick and use it for a weapon.”)

We have a yearly tradition at my house. Everyone says they don’t want/need a tree. Then, I have a burst of nostalgia and/or plant fetish, and I buy a tree, anyway. Then, I force everyone to get off the video games and help decorate the tree. Then, I totally OCD out and yell at everyone for decorating it wrong. Then, I end up decorating it, myself, while everyone else watches TV. Then, I turn on the tree lights and demand that everyone bow down and pay homage to the pagan shrine I have erected. Then, the kids go back to their video games.

So, see me sniping, three paragraphs up, about people doing stuff that makes them miserable?

Every year, I force myself to admit that I’m not a very pleasant tree-decorating-mate, and I tell everyone it’s okay if we don’t get a tree.

But, every year, the kids subtly hint that they want or expect a tree.

I can only conclude that they like having me yell at them, and like watching me get all perfectionist/insane, and like seeing the lights and the eventual presents.

My boyfriend is the one who doesn’t want a tree this year. But we’re overriding his vote. He just doesn’t understand the mysteries of our rituals. Neither do we, apparently. But it’s okay.

Don’t laugh at my weakness, Cold Hardy Types.

It got cold for a couple of days and everyone who grew up in Houston was sad, and everyone who grew up elsewhere rolled their eyes at us. But it’s okay. I found a new way to mini-bond with strangers – just walk up to sad, shivering people and say, “You were born here, weren’t you?” And they were, and so was I. And we’re all cold and sad together, and we can take comfort in the weather-related misery that loves company. And we can draw a line in the sand – not a Mason-Dixon line, not a Tree Line, but a Parka Line. Sand Truck Line. Snow Tire Line. I’m on the side of the line where we don’t like to have that stuff. We like it warm.

Two days later, it’s warm again. Of course. Our gods only give us as much burden as we can carry, right? The return of the warmth feels, to me, like the first hour your nose is unstuffed after weeks of sinus issues. You know that feeling? The extreme relief, accompanied by promises that you’ll never again take the default state for granted? And you’re just talking out your butt, because you’ll go right back to taking it for granted within a day? Yes.

I don’t have anything not-cloying to say.

I’m all like “Yay, I love the birds! Ooh, it’s warm! Yay, a restaurant! Ooh, the parts of Christmas that I don’t dislike!” Sorry. I’ll go back to complaining and ranting soon.

I have to censor myself very firmly right now, because I’m really bad at keeping secrets, okay? You know how, when you have vertigo, you avoid standing on a cliff’s edge because you’re scared you’ll be unable to keep from accidentally jumping off, despite your self-preserving instincts? That’s me right now, with the secrets. I’m like “Oh man, I better not type anything, because I might type what I got everybody for Christmas and then put it into my blog editor and hit Publish and then hit Yes, I’m Sure I Want to Publish and then I won’t delete it, and then everyone will know and the surprise will be ruined! Yikes!”

I’ve already almost-ruined it two or three times, now. In fact, I’m pretty sure everyone knows what I’m getting them and is just pretending not to, to be nice. *Le sigh.*

Let me go ahead and hang up with y’all, then. Let me go ahead and talk at y’all later. Happy December 25 if I don’t talk to you before then. Happy other days that you consider special.

The other day I was thinking about writing a “thankful for” list for this blog, and immediately got whiny and self-pitying, in my mind, over all the little things for which I’m not grateful this year. Then, right after that, I had a Thanksgiving Miracle Revelation: All my worries are first world worries. (I learned that phrase from Jackie.) That means all my problems are trite things that 98% of the people in the world wish were the only things they had to worry about. Things that the me of ten, five, or even two years ago would have been happy to trade for my worries of the moment. Things like “zomg, when am I gonna be able to fix the shower in one of the bathrooms in the house that I can still totally afford because I got a prime loan and not an adjustable rate mortgage?” And like, “I’m so sad I barely have time to write these things that people are paying me to write after I get home from the job where I’m well paid and respected for my skills!” And things like “Oh noes, I have to consult with my traffic court lawyer on this BS ticket scam that East Chickenfoot, TX is trying to run before my license comes up for renewal a year from now.”

And, I mean, we have plenty to eat and plenty of air conditioning and/or heat as we need it, and more clothes and toys than we can use in a year, and our cats are fat. And we’re healthy, knock on wood. So… thank God, right? Thank God for everything we have, and for the Indians feeding the pilgrims that day and giving us yet another excuse to chill out with our family and friends and eat more than usual. Life is good. Thank y’all for existing, so that your silent existence would force me to think of a list of things that would reveal to me how very, very lucky I am.

/cheese

A lot of crazy stuff is going on with my day-job company, just like it is for all of yours, I’m sure. Here’s hoping every one of us ends up where we need to be. A couple of our friends have been laid off recently, and we’re crossing our fingers for them.

One of my friends has been sick as hell, and my fingers are crossed for her, too. Most of my friends are doing well, and I’m glad.

I’m super, super busy til December 1, polishing my second novel. After/amongst that, I’m gearing up to promote the first novel and the second kids’ book. Between those, I’m hosting Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve at my house. My cousin is hosting Christmas this year, and she just told me that we might have to break down and form a Super Family Style Tamale Assembly Line, Just Like Back in the Day. I like to think that my first kids’ book (see Tamale book, linked at right) was part of the inspiration for that scheme. The part you don’t see in the kids’ book is one of the cousins saying “And, while we make the tamales, we’ll drink wine.” But it might have been implied. Hard to say — hard to interpret one’s own work, to be objective about one’s subconcious literary intent. You’ll have to read the book and read between the lines. Are Ana’s cousins drinking wine while they spread the masa? You will have to be the judge on that one. Then you’ll have to let me know. This year I want to try to make my friend Letty’s mom’s “drunken tamales,” which are filled with beans and cabbage. Sounds weird, but tastes freaking awesome. Believe.

Okay, no more stream of conscience blogging.

It’s time to get back to work. Everybody pray for me, that I can work super hard and get everything done. I’m sending good wishes to everyone out there who has art they want/need to complete, whether they read my blog or not. Because I’m starting to believe that’s one of the best things people can do to stay happy while navigating our vale of tears: make art when you feel the need. Despite time constraints. Despite the negativity of others. Despite the nagging feeling that you’re supposed to be doing something else.

If I don’t talk to y’all before Thanksgiving, I hope you have a good one. If you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, then I hope you have a bunch of really good days in November.

I never write, I never call. Soon, though. Almost finished being busy here. Literally, I don’t know how I get everything done.

dream

Last night I dreamed Matt Damon and I ran into each other and got to talking and catching up on what was happening with our mutual friends. In the course of our conversation, we admitted to each other that we’d always had crushes on each other. No, not crushes… we were in love.

I made out with Matt Damon. We told each other in great detail how and when and why we each knew we’d fallen in love with the other. Then we realized that each of us was currently unmarried.

“Note to self,” I thought, “Break up with my fiance next time I see him.” Because, as much as I loved my fiance, I knew that I had to take the once-in-a-lifetime chance to find the ultimate romantic happiness with Matt Damon, who was so obviously, probably my soulmate.

Matt Damon and I made out. I decided I’d tell my fiance we should take a break from our relationship for a month, to make sure we wanted to get married for absolute certain. During that month, I told myself, I would date Matt Damon. I decided not to divulge that part of the plan to my fiance, as it would only hurt him. Also, that way, if it turned out that Matt Damon and I were not really soulmates, I could just get back with my fiance and move forward.

I thought my plan over and could see no problems with it. Matt Damon stepped away to speak to a mutual friend. I rode a very long swing that was hanging from the sky. I swung in great circles and picked a giant almond from a tree in an orchard full of giant-almond trees being tended by Miss Carmen Abrego.

I swung back to the park and Matt Damon was waiting for me. We kissed. Then, my fiance appeared at my side. “Oops,” I thought.

The End.

When I Woke Up

I realized how silly the whole thing was. Because, in reality, my fiance loves me very much, and I love him. So I know that, if Matt Damon were to come to me and tell me he’d always loved me, I could totally go to my fiance and say, “Baby, Matt Damon says he loves me. Can you and I break up for a month so I can see what’s up with that?”

And I know he’d say, “Sure, baby. I know you really like Matt Damon, and I wouldn’t want you to miss out on that chance.”

Also, Matt Damon is married to someone who seems really nice. So, the whole point is moot.

I’m getting older.

And I’m not sad about it. It’s not a bad thing, to lose patience for immature people. The best thing is that you can walk away from them without worrying that they’ll stop liking you, or that they’ll call you old or stuck-up or boring. You won’t care about petty shit like that anymore. It’s really kind of awesome, the not caring and the walking away.

Jesus

This blog entry’s gonna kind of suck because I have no time to write it. No time to craft. But y’all know why and y’all know that it doesn’t diminish the undying distant affection that I feel for each of you. Y’all feel that great impersonal artist-to-viewer love and want to reciprocate it in terms of book sales. Don’t you? Don’t you? Doncha just wanna, and make it all real to me? Give me the excuse to have been doing this for so long? Create my pay-off? Give me the royal nod? Vote with your dollars? Pay my commission?

Sure. Love y’all for doing so. Y’all are the bestest.

Halloween is over for us

because we had our party last night. Next is Thanksgiving, which I’m hosting this year, so I’ll have to get pretty obsessive and then OCD about every aspect of that. Then comes Christmas, which we aren’t really celebrating since it’s the year for the kids to spend it at their dad’s. And, weirdly, although you’d think I’d mind and I would’ve agreed with you a year ago, I now kind of look forward to the non-Christmas years just like sophisticated people always do in short-story collections.

You know — in award-winning short stories, people are always travelling in other countries on Christmas day and feeling only slightly melancholy, but still experiencing meaningful things that have some parallel or counterpoint to some aspect of the narrator’s previous Christmas experience. And the story ends on something poignantly tragic or quirkily literarily beautiful.

So it’ll be like that for me this year, except that instead of a non-American country, I’ll be in a dim sum restaurant. And, in addition to all the drama and angst and metamorphosis that always takes place in my head (and is painstakingly detailed there, and then recreated later on the phone with someone, late at night), I’ll have a culinary adventure, as well. Doubtless. Probably in the form of a dessert — a new-to-me formation of red beans and dough.

And it will be magical. The stuff Nobel Prizes are made of.

P.S.: If there were any particular excuse for me to leave my fiance for Matt Damon, it would be because my fiance keeps trying to pretend that he doesn’t know what American Thanksgiving food is. He keeps talking about brocolli rice casserole, and I keep getting mad to the point of tears while describing acorn squash and sweet potatoes. “Orange not green!” I cry. “THE COLORS OF FALL!”

I say we “keep” doing this and by that I mean once per year. We already had that talk this year, so it’s out of the way and we can move forward. He promised to try. I promised to try to show him. (I show him the recipes, and he cooks them.) That’s what being engaged means. It means a compromise. Before the compromise comes, it means making a concerted effort to figure out each other’s personal traumas and mental scars. His is autumn foods for Thanksgiving, which he knows all about and only pretends not to know about even though he’s been in this country since he was two. Mine is autumn foods for Thanksgiving, which I know all about because I obsess about it every year that my family cooks beans and rice instead.

Being engaged also means

calling each other fiance and fiancee instead of boyfriend and girlfriend. I know that now, because everyone keeps telling me. “Did you just say ‘my boyfriend’? I thought you guys were engaged. Are you engaged or not? Isn’t that an engagement ring you’re wearing? Do you wish you weren’t engaged? Have you called off the engagement?”

No, Mr. Damon, we haven’t. The engagement is still on. But, like I told y’all, it’s a long engagement. And the problem is, I can’t say the word fiance without feeling like Sigourney Weaver in that episode of Seinfeld where she keeps saying fiance and Elaine says, “Maybe the dingo ate your baby.”

I know what people are worried about. They’re worried they’re going to get cheated out of a wedding. Particularly a wedding that Tad and I have slaved and OCD’ed over, which means that it’ll be the best wedding anyone’s likely to see in their lifetimes in this town.

Don’t worry, people. We’re still engaged, and we’re already obsessing over the wedding in our spare time.

Okay, that’s all.

I was looking for a clip of the dingo quote for y’all, but couldn’t find it. Sorry.

I’m thinking about getting a new car, by the way. Maybe two weekends from now. Send me New Car Financing vibes if you want. Or, better yet, just preorder my book.

Love,
(Impersonal, Distant, Nonetheless Heartfelt Love,)
Gwen

I went to Flickr, was disappointed that no one’s posted many xmas photos, then reminded myself that I haven’t posted any, either.

Our Christmas went really well. Hope yours did, too. We baked. A while back, my youngest son Rory, now 10, had found some retro recipe for cookies shaped like mice. He became obsessed with the idea of baking them for Christmas, no matter how many times we told him that a) they’d be a pain in the butt to make, and b) mice have nothing to do with Christmas. But he wouldn’t relent, so we did. We took him on a special last-minute drugstore trip to purchase strawberry flavored licorice for mouse tails. We puzzled out how to get the tails into the cookies — Tad thought of putting toothpicks into the mouse bodies to keep a hole in place while they baked. But we had no toothpicks, so I thought of rolling up tiny bits of foil. The mice had chocolate-chip eyes and peanut ears. While baking, they each doubled or tripled in weight. We decided they were mice preparing for hibernation. Or else, simply very fat mice. The aluminum tails popped out and the licorice tails popped in (with minimal inappropriate innuendo, heh), and the end result was awesome. Rory’s cookies got their own display plate, and he enjoyed showing them to everyone who showed up at our party. And I hope I haven’t created a baking monster now. Just kidding. We also made other cookies, and mini rum cakes, and white chocolate popcorn as gifts. And if I had known before how easy it was to work with white chocolate bark coating, everything in my house would have been dipped in it by now…

We didn’t do a lot of gifts this year because, like a lot of people who drive cars in America, I’m pretty freaking broke right now, and there aren’t any Black Friday sales worth the credit card interest, as far as I’m concerned. So we traded very small, inexpensive things, or else things that we’d made for each other. And, honestly, I think it came out just as well. The kids said it did. Maybe they were just being gracious, though. They’re so gracious. My dad came over and gave them all Best Buy gift certificates. Rory asked him the amount they contained. My dad said, in the dry tone I know as his joking voice, “I’m pretty broke this year, so they’re $8 each.” All three kids thanked him. Then, my dad said, “Either 8 or [way bigger amount], I forget.” And I understood that they were of course for the bigger amount. The kids thanked him again.

Then, the next day, Rory told me, “Grandpa gave us $8 each for Best Buy, so that’s $24. Maybe we can get a game with that.” And he seemed so excited. His brother Dallas somberly agreed that they should pool their $8 cards. I said, “No, babies. He gave y’all [much bigger amount] each. Not $8.” And they go, “Oh-h-h-h…” Fifteen-year-old Josh rolled his eyes and laughed. He’d gotten the joke.

Okay, enough bragging about my kids. They’re going to their dad’s today, for his part of the holiday. It’s kind of unfair, because our school district rearranged their calendar again, so I’m getting the kids for almost no time at all. But at least I got them for Christmas. Next year I won’t, and that’ll be sad. We’ll have to bake for Thanksgiving, instead. Because I think we finally started the tradition of it.

I was glad that my boyfriend Tad liked both the inexpensive gifts I got him. Y’all know how mens can be hard to shop for. So it was a relief, to see him look sincerely pleased. He got me three very inexpensive gifts, one of which was the wrong size. (“Oh. I didn’t see the sizes on them. I just picked the color.”) But that’s okay, because I already know what I’m getting for my birthday, which is tomorrow. I found out by accident. I’m excited. (But I hope it’s the right size.) More on that later, after I come back a year older and hopefully wiser, too.

sad media agenda

This morning, on our local news, the newscasters were at the malls telling us that all the stores had extra, special, super, duper, slashed-prices after-xmas sales today. Because — surprise! — no one sold very much before xmas.

And I’m thinking, if people couldn’t afford to buy gifts before xmas, why do the malls think they’ll suddenly have money afterwards? And why is the news pushing the idea? Is media conglomeration that bad now? Does Time Warner own Wal-Mart now? I mean, I know you can no longer read magazines without fully expecting them to push the books/movies/music umbrella’ed by their parent companies, but dude. What’s up with the newspeople encouraging me to shop today? Give me a freaking break.

It reminded me of the days after 9/11, when George W. Bush told us the best thing we could do for our country would be to shop our brains out for xmas.

Honestly? I like shopping as much as anyone. I’m a straight-up consumerist and it gives me the DTs not to shop on any given weekend, and the signs that say 70% Off call to me like sirens with long, well conditioned hair. But still. Even I have my limits. Don’t ask me to shop when every not-rich person in America is broke. Tell Halliburton to shop. Tell Texaco to shop. Tell George W. Bush to shop. I’m not listening.

consumerism!

However.

I do have a couple of gift certificates to spend, so I will do that. First stop: Barnes and Noble. Also, I would like to have my nails done in the trendy style — short ovals with nearly-black polish. We’ll see. I have to count my pennies first.

Last night we caught the tail end of Bad Santa, and I watched Billy Bob ask his fellow criminals why they needed all the crap they were stealing from the department store. Why, indeed? They were stealing tacky trash. I would’ve stolen way better.

The other day, as I told y’all, my boyfriend Tad and I went to Neiman Marcus, which is an expensive department store, as some of y’all might know. I don’t go there often, because their target market seems a little older than me. When I do go, it’s to purchase the occasional Bobbi Brown product, and their cosmetics sales peeps are always very cordial.

But we went there the other day to look at the clothing, as I told y’all, and ever since then I keep dreaming about it. I dreamed we were suddenly rich and my boyfriend went to the office of the CEO to speak to him about merchandise. Meanwhile, I waited in the wood-panelled waiting room, and South American women struck up conversations with me in rapid Spanish. I thought, “They think I speak Spanish, and they think I’m rich.” Then, I thought, “Oh, but I do, and I am.” And then we talked about how much we liked shopping at Neiman Marcus. It was funny.

Tad’s brother and s-i-l are rich, and they shop there often. So Neiman Marcus sends them beautiful Vogue-mag-sized catalogs, which they flip through and discard. Tad asks if he can have the catalogs. Then he takes them to my house, where he and my youngest son and I peruse each page and laugh or sigh at the insanely expensive stuff. Tad wants a mink dinner jacket. Rory wants a diamond skull-faced watch. I want a python bag, but I feel sorry for the pythons, that they spend their lives growing so thick, only to end up a bag for some lady. So I’ll take a diamond Hello Kitty watch, instead. The one with the white ceramic band. Even though it has Kimora Lee Simmons’ name on it, and she’s not my type.

Wanna hear a dirty secret? Even though I’m not a teenager anymore, I do still cherish a fantasy that I was meant to be rich. That I’m destined for it, sheerly by virtue of my impeccable taste.

The longer I live, though, the more I suspect that I’m not meant to be rich, because it wouldn’t be as much fun. If I were rich, I wouldn’t have a reason to shop the most run-down thrift stores anymore. I’d have to do “vintage boutiques,” instead. If I were rich, I’d miss the obscene joy of rescuing someone else’s Neiman Marcus catalogs from the dumpster.

There are two fictional characters I suspect of having Asperger’s Syndrome, whether or not the actors were consciously portraying them that way:

1. Napoleon Dynamite.

2. Bill Haverchuck of Freaks and Geeks.

Or maybe I’m just projecting that onto them because I like those characters, and one of my sons has Aspergers, and I want to imagine my son living a life with a happy ending. Every week.

And now that I’m searching for links, I see that I’m not the first person to have expressed those thoughts:

• Napoleon Dynamite: Asperger’s Disorder or Geek NOS?
• an amateur review in which some guy bashes Jared Hess for mocking “stupid, disgusting, socially retarded” characters, and the last commenter sets him straight
• Napoleon discussion on Aspies for Freedom
• In a review of the Freaks and Geeks DVD set, someone calls Bill Haverchuck the poster boy for Aspergers.

So, once again, know that you can count on Gwenworld.com for all your years-after-the-fact pop culture commentary! Here’s some more:
I saw Shallow Hal last night, and it wasn’t as bad as I’d assumed it would be, way back when it first came out in 2001. I guess I was just looking for an excuse to dislike Gwyneth Paltrow. That was before she wore that too-big-in-the-bust pink dress to the Oscars, and I began to feel bad for her, instead.

yays

I was in the dentist’s office for about four minutes this morning, and now I’m good to go. (Tiny bump on my new temp bridge was throwing off my bite, wreaking havoc. Now it’s gone.) Thank gosh. It wasn’t until it was over that I realized how much I’d been dreading that visit. Oh, also, dreading things makes me grind my teeth. Which makes them hurt more. Duh. Vicious cycle ahoy!

I’m going to start a museum

in which I archive lame attempts at flirting by self-important Corporate American men.

Not because they flirt with me, but because I’ve been in a position to overhear the flirting, over and over and over again. Because they do it right in front of me, because I’m not pretty enough to be visible to them. Plenty of women can say the same thing, I’m sure — that they overhear crass come-ons on a regular basis, that they feel disrespected by the men who do such things in professional settings… But would other women obsessively analyze and catalog the phenomemon, like I unwillingly find myself doing every week day? Probably not. Upon hearing any random failed come-on, I immediately, telepathically comprehend the would-be pick-up artist’s secret fears, skeevy desires, and pathetic fetishes. I don’t want to know, but I can’t help it.

And that’s why hearing that crap tortures me. No, not because I’m an old, fat, jealous shrew. Not because I’m a jealous lesbian. But because it’s pretty depressing, hearing the silently screamed longings of men I can’t admire.

Five Pound Allowance

Speaking of being a fat, jealous, lesbian shrew… I can’t wait until Christmas Eve. Why? Because I’m going to eat baked goods on that day. Baked goods of my own making.

I’ve decided to allow myself to gain as much as five pounds, between Christmas and New Year’s. Because isn’t that, like, the legally ordained amount of weight that we gain that week in America? So I’m ready.

And then, by May, I plan to lose 20 pounds net. And then I will be done. Wish me luck.

And merry December 24th to y’all, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, and whether you eat baked goods or not. Have fun.

Sometimes I want to tell y’all what I find at the thrift stores, and maybe post pictures of my finds, but then I don’t, because I’ve realized that I like pretty boring clothes.

Today, for instance, I am wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a fuchsia silk cardigan ($1.91 with orange tag markdown). And black loafers. And no jewelry, because I forgot it. And that’s pretty much about as exciting as my wardrobe gets, unless I bust out a dress or the knee-high boots or something.

The other day I found a brand new pair of brown, unembellished, Unlisted loafers at my second-favorite thrift store, for $6.97. I found one of them on the floor, and I searched the store until I found its mate. And I was so ecstatically happy. “I should take a picture of these and put them on my Flickr page!” I said to myself. Then I realized how underwhelming a picture of brown loafers would be.

Oh, well. I’m still happy about them.

But, if you’d like to see something semi-exciting, go on over to my Flickr page and see that paintings I did to go above my fireplace.

The YouTubes and the CSSes and the BloggerWriters and the InterWebs

I feel kind of sad about the fact that I haven’t posted anything on YouTube yet. I feel un-Web-pioneer-y. I even have stuff to post — two or three readings and lectures I did that people were kind enough to videotape for me and then make DVDs for my use, to post on YouTube as I’d promised I would. And I haven’t yet done it. I even have the video editing software on my computer. I just haven’t had time to get it done.

Other information highway merge lanes I haven’t had time to drive on:

• podcasting with the MP3s I have of myself reading and yakking at radio show hosts
• putting something about my books on the domain GwendolynZepeda.com
• getting on any writer-y sites and telling people I’m a writer
• updating the design of this here blog

How do y’all web mavens have time to do all this stuff? Is it because you do it as a career? Is it because you don’t have 28 kids, like I do? Are you doing it at your day jobs? Are you tricking high school students into being your web content interns? Help me, ObiWanKenobis. Tell me your secrets.

It just takes time, I guess. Maybe I can do something on the web, next time I feel like painting a bunch of birds and hanging them up above my fireplace.

Weekend Adventure: Farmers’ Market

One of my kid’s friends spent the weekend with us, which was all the excuse we needed to conduct weekend adventures. We dragged that little boy to the Asian grocery store to see the live frogs and purchase cha siu for the fried-rice feast my boyfriend later cooked. We dragged him to a park that we’d never seen before, and that park ended up having bison and pigs and emus, oh my! We sought out a new (to us) carniceria, next door to our second favorite panaderia and ate a fabulously traditional Mexican Sunday breakfast of tacos, pastry, and insanely spicy hot sauce.

After we dropped the boy off at his home, my boyfriend dropped me off at my favorite thrift store for a few hours, which is always a very exciting adventure, for me at least. (Three skirts in gray and taupe! A light blue button-down!) Then we reconvened at Empire, which is the best coffee house in Houston.

(Please don’t write and tell me that Brazil or Dietrich’s are the best. They aren’t. Empire is. Sorry.) (Just kidding. Feel free to tell me which is your fave, and why. I always want to know y’all’s fave restaurants in Houston, okay?)

Best of all, though: We went to the farmers’ market on Airline, which neither Tad nor I had been to since we were children. The Airline farmers’ market is, as my youngest son put it, a “fleamarket of food.” Their restrooms are nastier than those of the nightclub #s. But still — they have beautiful fruits, vegetables, spices, and herbs for dirt cheap. We’re going back again very soon. Every single week for the rest of our lives, maybe.

I’ve been meaning to tell y’all this for weeks now…

I no longer like Billy Joel’s music.

You know why? Because, the other day, I heard a song of his I hadn’t heard since I was a kid with snot running down my nose and no sense of what was happening in the world. That song was “Big Shot.”

Here is the chorus and two verses of the song:

Because you had to be a big shot, didn’t you
You had to open up your mouth
You had to be a big shot, didn’t you
All your friends were so knocked out
You had to have the last word, last night
You know what everything’s about
You and to have a white hot spotlight
You had to be a big shot last night

They were all impressed with your Halston dress
And the people you knew at Elaine’s
And the story of your latest success
Kept ’em so entertained
But now you just can’t remember
All the things you said
And you’re not sure you want to know
I’ll give you one hint, honey
You sure did put on a show

Well, it’s no big sin to stick your two cents in
If you know when to leave it alone
But you went over the line
You couldn’t see it was time to go home

What the hell is this guy’s deal? The narrator of this song is mad at some chick because… why? Because she talked a lot? Because her friends were “knocked out” and “entertained” by her stories? Because she wore an expensive dress?

Maybe I’m just reading way too much into it (as I will sometimes do with lyrics when I’m in my van, listening to the radio during my 1.25 hour commute), but it sounds like the narrator just can’t hang with women getting attention. Maybe attention that he feels is rightfully his?

Read those lyrics, then consider the lyrics to “Uptown Girl,” which Mr. Joel presumably wrote later:

Uptown girl
She’s been living in her uptown world
I bet she’s never had a backstreet guy
I bet her momma never told her why

Uptown girl
You know I can’t afford to buy her pearls
But maybe someday when my ship comes in
She’ll understand what kind of guy I’ve been
And then I’ll win

Watch out, uptown girl! Don’t do it! Don’t marry this backstreet guy, because every time you want to have a little fun with your friends or dress up a little or tell anyone about your accomplishments, he’ll ridicule you and your white-bread world. Then, years later, after he’s erroded your self esteem, the two of you will divorce and then he’ll replace you with a younger woman too meek to hold her own on a cooking contest show!

Just kidding. Heh. I’m sure Billy Joel is a very nice person, and his song narrators are no reflection of his own views on women. I just like to listen to music and make up funny little stories for myself when I’m alone in my van.

When I was a child, I memorized lyrics without thinking about them. I also liked Billy Joel and hated Bob Seeger.

But now that I’m older, I can’t help but think about lyrics. Do I want to listen to songs that say “Ha, ha, you rich bitch, I did donuts on your lawn with my motorcycle,” or lyrics that say “I had sex with a rich woman in Hollywood and it was awesome, and now I’m an old, worn-out cliche of a rock star and I only have myself to blame”?

Or do I want to go back to my old favorite, with lyrics that say “It seems like we really hate women, but then again, we did steal most of this music from black musicians nowhere near as famous as us”? Now that Led Zeppelin’s having a little comeback, I mean.

Silverfish, silverfish! It’s Christmas time in the city!

I decorated our Christmas tree (Douglas fir, $17 at Lowe’s with $10-off coupon) last night.

I’m not even going to tell y’all about the all-new holiday trauma tradition we started, which involved the whole family and the meticulous slaughtering of the silverfish that have been breeding in our garage, in the boxes that came over from our apartment more than a year ago, which contained all our Christmas ornaments and decorations.

I’m not even going to tell you about it.

Suffice it to say that tree is up, the garage is clear, and my children will grow up with beautiful holiday memories — the strains of “Deck the Halls” intertwined with the dulcet tones of their mommy’s voice, screaming, “There’s one! KILL IT!” and “Bang it on the floor until they all fall out!” and “Because I gave birth to you, that’s why!”

Beautiful. Priceless. You’re welcome, kids. I love you, too.