One day Ray (that was his name) noted that I was having a tragic childhood. He wasn’t being mean—it was obvious. Everyone at the non-profit organization could see that I was poverty-stricken, angsty, and vitamin-deficient. It wasn’t a secret and a lot of my childhood neighbors could be described the same way. So Ray noted my “bad” childhood, said it would likely lead to a bad young adulthood, and then I’d be destined to have a good second half to my life.

I laughed. How did he figure that?

It was a theory he’d developed. He’d observed that people who had inordinately bad childhoods usually went on to have very good lives later. And the reverse was true, as well, he said. He gave me examples. Most were successful people who’d grown up poor and child actors gone wrong. He listed James Dean. I pointed out that James Dean had died young. He said that was the ultimate example: good half was fame and fortune, bad half was being dead.

I thought his theory was silly. I didn’t say so but he could tell, and he kept reassuring me that it was true, especially in my case. He invoked his ethnicity. He was some kind of American Indian—I forget which tribe—and he had a special feeling (which, as a Chicana, I had to respect), therefore his words were actually a premonition. He saw my future by looking into my eyes. Click!

I’m not a dumb-dumb. Even then I knew he was trying to be nice. Cheer up the girl and get her to smile. Guys tended to do that, some more creatively than others. His method fed into my secret hopes and made for a better photograph.

When the ‘80s ended, I embarked on an unhappy young adulthood. Of course I did—with the life I’d lived until then, it was practically my destiny.

But now I’m happy. (Like the Russian man said, every happy family is happy in the same way, so you can imagine it without details.) Everything around me is different, to the point that people who meet me now have a hard time imagining the hungry, sad child I tell them I used to be.

Problems arise in my life, yes. But they aren’t part of an unlucky existence—that unstoppable series of unfortunate events, one after another—like they used to be. They’re only temporary obstacles. Like plots on a sitcom, they’re resolved with happy endings, week after week.

I know, rationally, that my life changed because I’ve gained experience, worked hard, gone to therapy, and aligned myself with trustworthy people. But I think about Ray’s theory more and more lately, and it gives me extra confidence. Even though it’s silly, I find myself thinking, “Remember, this is the good half of my life.” That means problems are temporary. That means it’ll all work out in the end.

It’s a comforting mantra, like shorthand for everything I’ve learned. Basically, it was the modeling fee Ray paid me for my smile. #can’tstayseriousforonewholepage

Poetry Book as Personality Test?

Read my latest book, Falling in Love with Fellow Prisoners and tell me what you think of it, and you’ll be telling me something about yourself.

Someone said it’s all about sex and women striving to dominate men.

Someone said it’s about hope and being a mom.

A lot of Houstonians said it’s about urban loneliness.

College students are my favorite readers because they bravely tell me their interpretations and demand that I confirm or deny. Some students thought the poem “Girlfriend” was about a girl lamenting to a boy. Some thought it was a boy having his heart broken by a girl. All the students in the class knew “Eula in the Bathroom Stall” was about feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable… but why? Because the speaker was defecating? Masturbating? Having a really bad day at school?

A young woman asked if the catcaller’s words in “Omega Wolf” were things that had actually been said to me. I told them the actual comments that had inspired it—way less graphic but every bit as invasive—and they were shocked. Could easily imagine the fear/loathing/fascination I felt and then tried to convey in the piece.

Someone thought the poem about a spinal headache was about miscarriage. His mistake made me imagine his fears.

I hate opaque poetry and I try to keep mine plain and comprehensible. But I love hearing people’s interpretations, even when they’re totally different from my intent. All I want is to make you feel what I felt, or let you know that I feel what you felt, so we’ll feel less alone.

If someone were to torture you mildly a little – say, for information, or because he/she was a crazed stalker – would it make the torture more tolerable to have one of your favorite mellow songs playing in the background?

Probably not, I guess. Or could it depend on how much you liked the song, and how mild the torture was?

Then, afterwards, could you ever like that song again? Or would it just be bittersweet?

I would tell y’all what song made me think about this, but I don’t want to give potential crazed stalkers any ammunition.

something less weird (but related)

Since iPods have been invented, are y’all hearing your old favorite songs in a new way? For instance, do your earbuds, shoved all the way up in your earwax, suddenly help you to hear lyrics that you couldn’t hear before?

Or do you hear the instruments and harmonies more distinctly?

Maybe I just need to get my hearing checked, in general. But I have to say that I never noticed until the other day how awesome the background singers are on Todd Rundgren’s “Hello It’s Me.”

something weirder than the first part, suddenly

I went to Wikipedia to see if they’d tell me the names of the women who sang back-up on “Hello It’s Me.” Instead, they told me that “[o]n the day he shot and killed John Lennon, Mark David Chapman left an eight-track tape of Rundgren’s album The Ballad of Todd Rundgren, along with other artifacts, in his New York hotel room in an orderly semicircle on the hotel dresser.”

But more fascinating and curiosity-whetting than that: “Stephen Colbert, on his Comedy Central show The Colbert Report, invited former Cars vocalist Ric Ocasek to add anyone of his choice to the ‘On Notice’ board. Ocasek chose Todd Rundgren.”

This requires further investigation. I see that Rundgren briefly took Ocasek’s place in a reformation of the Cars called The New Cars. How come no one told me this? Plus, how come nobody told me Ric Ocasek was going to be on the Colbert Show? Is it because I never watch the Colbert Show? Come on. I need people to help me out, here.

Wouldn’t it be cool if

you could have an intern (or even a paid assistant) who would spend all day finding things that would interest you? For instance, I loved the Cars and Ric Ocasek, but not so much his solo work. I loved him with Paulina P, but don’t love him enough to keep up with a fan site or anything. I’d read his Twitter, maybe, but not his blog. Meanwhile, I love the song “Hello It’s Me” but never felt compelled to buy a Todd Rundgren album.

A skilled Interest Mining Assistant Professional could take all those parameters and deduce that, while I don’t want to see The New Cars in concert, I do want to be informed if and when public cattiness occurs between Misters Ocasek and Rundgren.

I mean – hello. It’s all right there for someone to figure out and act on, isn’t it?

As soon as I get rich, I’m putting an ad on Craigslist….

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.

It’s funny… Sometimes I feel like I live my life really fast. You know?

Last week, I got the first inkling of good news while I sat at my desk at work. And I was so, so happy that I had to go into the stairwell and jump up and down a little. And I wondered how I would be able to contain myself throughout the day. But I told myself to calm down and wait until the good news was finalized.

Yesterday, my agent got permission to post the good news in Publishers Marketplace. I was excited. “Yay, now it’s official and I can tell everyone!” I thought. And I emailed my friends. And I thought, “I need to announce this on my blog. But maybe I should wait until tomorrow…”

And then, I started with the planning. There’s a lot of stuff to plan, and I like to plan the hell out of things, to the furthest extent possible, with contingencies and back-ups and variables and weather charts and Excel spreadsheets and protractors and everything. So I started doing that. And my friends were like, “So, do you want to have a drink this weekend, to celebrate?” And I was like, “I can’t. I’m so busy; I have so much stuff to do…”

And they were like, “Have you noticed that you’ve never celebrated any of this? We’re still waiting for you to celebrate your first four books. When are you gonna get around to it? The vodka bottles are stacking up over here.”

And I laughed, because they were right. And then I said, “Seriously, though — I have a ton of stuff to do. Not just for this book, but for everything.”

So, yeah. I’m really busy lately, and I have a lot of writing to do, and my mind is spinning with all the plans and lists… Oh, and…

I sold another novel to Grand Central Publishing!

My second novel!
My fifth book!

Yay!

thrift report

Today I’m wearing a $5.97 pleated cotton Ann Taylor Loft skirt. It’s brown and white with flowers in the color I call persimmon. Not burnt orange, which makes me look corpsical, but persimmon, which is blue-er and much more flattering. I have paired this with a brown Carole Little top from Ross Dress for Less, and brown shoes. Creative, I know. I told y’all I wear boring clothes, though. Even though I do have this one persimmon satin top (of Target) that someone implied the other day was something only a Latina would wear. For a Latina, I am boring. For a white person, maybe my colors get a little bright sometimes. Fuchsia, orange, light pink, bright green. But my skin is light olive, so those are the colors that help me. I think that means I’m “a Summer.” Being half white makes me Summer instead of Winter. Winter was what every non-white person had to be, back in the ’80s, when such things got said.

Oops. I didn’t mean to go off on the political train there. But that is a personal pet peeve of mine — the American beauty trends and science ideas that non chalantly exclude non-white people. Like the Color Seasons lady saying that white people can be Spring, Autumn, Summer, Winter, and then lumping all the black and asian and dark-skinned latina chicks under Winter, in her best-selling book, back in the ’80s. Like all those ’90s toys for babies with the white faces, black eyes and smiles. Because it was proven that babies were attracted to high-contrast face, meaning white faces with dark eyes. Because… dark-skinned babies don’t care to see their dark-skinned parents? Like Karl Lagerfeld saying, just last year, that tans are out, and only pale skin looks fresh right now.

Okay, back to the thrift report. Last week’s find: a black Armani Exchange sweater, little plastic tag thing still attached, for $9.97. Yay.

Jungle love is driving me slightly mad. It’s making me a tiny bit crazy.

I realized that Houston does have a Bob station, after all. Well, Hempstead, Texas does, at least. Hempstead and Cypress and Tomball and the Woodlands, and as I travel east on 290, the station fades.

I like the Bob stations because they are the masters of busting out songs you haven’t heard in a billion, jillion years. Like Uriah Heep’s “Thirty Days in the Hole.”

So I’m listening to it the other day, and they play that song “Jungle Love” (by Steve Miller Band, I think?) and at first I think, “Oh, not that cheesy freaking song.” But then it cranks up and I realize I don’t hate it too much, after all. And I’m listening to the lyrics, and it’s about some guy meeting some chick on somebody’s island, and giving her a crate of papayas (euphemism?) and then, presumably, having sex with her in the ocean and maybe in the jungle, too.

And I thought, “It’s so lame, how guys will think that a song-worthy topic is the fact that they had sex with a hot chick.”

But then I thought about how nice it would be, not only to have a romantic liaison with someone attractive, but to be on a tropical island with no cares in the world, back in the days before HIV. With papayas and maybe other fruit, including hopefully mangoes. That is songworthy after all, isn’t it?

Then Steve Miller sings another verse, in which they’re off the island and life is like a jungle and I guess he’s not having sex with the hot chick anymore, but wishes he was. Or something. I spaced out on that part. I booked trips to Fiji and Bora Bora in my mind, instead. I looked forward to the day that I’d be able to spend money on traveling instead of on credit card interest. That lasted me the middle 20 minutes of my commute, and then I went back to fantasizing about being a preferred shopper at Neiman Marcus, and then planning the next thing I have to write.

2007 has been a disappointing year for me, for various reasons beyond my control. A year of rejections, failures, unexpected expenses and medical dramas. I’m calling it, in my mind, a year of learning experiences and character strengthening.

The one thing I have been able to control is my own body–namely, how much I eat and how much I exercise. (And I know that’s the seed of anorexia: focusing on controlling your own body when you feel powerless to control anything else. But don’t worry; I’m very, very far from that.) So I’ve failed at increasing my income this year, but I succeeded at decreasing my weight.

So I need new clothes. And I’m broke. And I have a whole wardrobe of clothing that doesn’t fit me anymore. So I thought I’d have a garage sale. But I couldn’t, because my neighborhood association won’t let us. And no one else I knew could get it together to have one… and selling clothes on eBay or Craigslist is too much work for too little money… But I was hoarding these bags of too-big clothes, thinking I’d sell them one way or another and then use the money to buy new clothes.

And then, the other day, my friend Letty, who works for the local women’s shelter, called me up. I was walking around the clearance dress racks at Macy’s when she called, in fact. She said, “Do you still have those clothes that are too big for you?”

I said yes. She said, “Would you consider donating them to the shelter? They just called me and said they desperately need clothes in that size.”

I said uh, yeah, I guess, maybe. She said, “You don’t have to give them all of it. They just really need work clothes and underwear.”

I said, “Underwear? Y’all take underwear? I was just gonna throw mine away. I never donate underwear because that’s kind of weird, you know? I mean, who wants old underwear?”

She said, “Well, sometimes women who come to the shelter have just been raped. So their underwear gets cut off of them when they’re being examined. And, you know, we have clothes to give them, but we don’t always have underwear–especially in the bigger sizes. So, you know, they just come to us…”

And I said okay, and I went home and got all the clothes together. And I went through my underwear drawer and pulled out the stuff that was fit to give away, and I tried not to think about how horrible it would be to have your underwear cut off, and then to move to a new place, full of strangers, with borrowed clothes and no underwear on your body. Or to try to start a new life with nothing but borrowed clothes, or literally no clothes at all. Not a wardrobe full of things that are a little too big, not a closet full of things you’re a little bit tired of, but literally nothing.

Houston Area Women’s Shelter needs larger sized work clothing and underwear, y’all. Especially sizes 20 and up. And winter coats. And toilettries. And diapers. And everything, all this stuff we take for granted.

winter storage

I gave Letty the clothes and then we had lunch, and we talked about a lot of stuff. I’ve known Letty since Kindergarten, and we don’t have lunch as often as we should, but when we do, we always end up discussing massive things. Because we are massive-issue-discussing friends. Which is good. It unblocks our minds.

One of the things we talked about was fear of poverty versus the ennui of middle class existence. Most people educated in America know of middle class ennui, because we read about it. It’s like, the prevailing experience of our literary canon, right? So I knew about it, but I didn’t really understand it until I became middle class.

I just bought a house, and Letty’s agonizing over whether or not to buy a house, and we both see now what it is–a huge financial commitment to a lifestyle you’re not sure you want to live for the life of your mortgage. And, if you fail (foreclose), then you aren’t just a failure–you’re a failure with worthless credit. Marked for life.

And Letty’s been wanting to go to grad school, but says she’s afraid to be broke. AKA poor. (I hope she doesn’t mind me telling you this. Letty, tell me if you mind and I’ll delete.)

Assuming everyone reading this has a little money, and therefore access to a computer and time to read this entry: Did you grow up poor? If so, then you know what it means to be afraid of returning to poverty. Did you grow up rich or middle class? If so, know that all your friends who grew up poor and scratched their way up are secretly, desperately afraid to turn poor again.

So I understood what Letty was saying, on the house count and on the grad school count. And I told her that, even though having a house makes me completely broke (AKA land-poor), I don’t mind because this time, I’m controlling my poverty. This time, I look at my budget and make conscious decisions. There’s no shame in being broke–in eating ramen noodles, buying thrift store clothes–if I’ve made the decision to do so in order to hold on to my house. And, if I decide to sell my house and go back to renting, it’ll be a slight failure, but again, something I controlled.

So… yeah.

It’s winter now in Houston, finally. And it’s the holidays. That means that, all over town, people who grew up poor are experiencing PTSD, and coping with it in various ways. Turning the heat up high. Not turning the heat up at all. Spending lots of money at the mall. Not spending money at all. Clinging to family. Avoiding family. Reliving old habits and trying to make sense of them. Creating new habits and trying to move on.

I turned up our heat a little today, because I think it’s worth paying to be warm. I’ve been taking things out of storage–things people gave me that were kind of a pain to store all summer when we lived in an apartment. Tea pot. Coffee press. Warm slippers. Sweaters and coats.

And you know what? I’m glad I have these things, and people who love me enough to give them. And I’m especially glad that I have this little snail-shell house. Meaning it’s heavy on my back, but it holds all the things that we need. In all senses of those words.

DJ Drama

Last night we went to local club Rich’s to see Felix da Housecat. Because he always puts on a good show, and Rich’s is our favorite venue. And, guess what? Felix wasn’t there. There was a hand-written sign on the register saying he was in the hospital, and that cover would be free, and that our pre-purchased tickets would be good for when Felix rescheduled.

I hope he isn’t really hospital-worthy sick. I hope he just felt like flaking. But if he’s really sick, I hope he gets well soon.

The opening act DJs did their best to make it up to us. They did a pretty good job.

After Rich’s, we went to South Beach. South Beach is one of Houston’s premier gay clubs. The reason we go there is JD Arnold. JD Arnold is, pretty much, Houston’s best DJ. He used to work at Rich’s for years and years and years. Then he went to South Beach (which is, incidentally, the phoenix risen from the literal ashes of hate-crime-ruined Heaven, as some of you will remember).

And then, JD Arnold left South Beach, apparently. Recently, I think. Because he was there last time we went, several months ago, and now he’s not.

“What happened to JD Arnold?” I asked the door guys.

“Who?” they said. “Who is that?“

“Hey, what happened to JD Arnold?” I asked a bartender who was running around.

“Who?” he said, just like the caterpillar with the hookah in Alice in Wonderland.

A bunch of employees gathered together, then, and complained about some customer hitting on or failing to hit upon one of their number. I was kind of tipsy, so I said it again. “Hey, you guys, what happened to JD Arnold?”

They looked at each other, made faces, rolled eyes, and said in a haughty chorus, “Who?“

Then I got it. “Y’all are mad at him, aren’t you? Y’all are, like, never saying his name in this club again?” They lifted eyebrows and scattered like feathers on the wind.

I still don’t know what happened. South Beach hasn’t updated their web site, either.

Last month we went to see DJ Sasha at Bar Rio. I know none of y’all listen to the music I listen to, and y’all probably just mentally blip over my long descriptions of the DJ shows. But, if you’ve read this far, know that in my fantasies of a post-lottery-winning wedding, I’m wearing a fuchsia silk cheongsam with embroidered peonies, and Sasha is DJing our reception. Got me?

A man called Spooky opened up that night, and he did very well. He’s an older guy, looks like an extra on a Lord of the Rings set, in t-shirt and jeans. Not ranking on his looks at all–just saying he didn’t look like you might expect a DJ to look. But he played like a mofo, so we loved him with all our hearts, right at that moment.

Then Sasha came out, and I was so, so excited, and I was right up there in the front where I could breathe his air…

… and he played this set that he later described as minimalist (in response to complaints, I think), but which I would describe as easy-listening techno. And I was sad, and disappointed. And I respect that he wants to try new stuff, and that he may be chilling out as he gets older, but, dude…
don’t come to a dance club and play undanceable music.

Now I’m thinking JD Arnold will have to play at my wedding. If anyone can find him. If he hasn’t been run out of Houston by the local velvet mafia, I mean.

crafting, baby

I painted a bunch of paintings–commercial interior dec stuff like they teach you to do on Trading Spaces–and they came out nice, and I’m happy. And it felt good to make stuff off the top of my head, with no pressure.

Try some crafting today. Start a holiday tradition. Put your dinette set in storage and make your family a crafting room. Let the cat help by stepping all over your drying canvases. (Because, of course, mine did. Thanks, Starbuck!)

Okay, that’s all. More later. Thanks for listening.

I’m all wrapped up in the Pakistan drama as it’s revealed to me each morning by NPR. This morning I made my boyfriend listen to it, and then we found out details that compelled me to look up these people’s photographs online today. Because I’m a visual learner, and I need to see names spelled in order to remember them. Photos of their faces seal the deal.

President Gen. Pervez Musharraf is the current leader of Pakistan. George Bush & Co. have been sending him money to “help fight terror” or whatever. But Musharraf’s term is about to end, and he’s not eligible to run again. So guess what he did. He declared a state of emergency, put on his military uniform, and sent out soldiers to deal with the lawyers who immediately started protesting this BS.

Benizar Bhutto is Pakistan’s former prime minister, and she’s been calling for Musharraf to leave office. So he put her under house arrest. But she didn’t stop talking. She just called a press conference from inside her house.

Imran Khan is the cricketeer-turned-politician who’s trying to incite university protest, if he could only keep rival groups from kidnapping him before he even takes the mic.

Jemima Goldsmith is Imran Khan’s British billionaire heiress ex-wife. That has nothing to do with what’s happening in Pakistan, of course. But it’s brilliant backstory, isn’t it?

How long before this becomes a movie, or a miniseries at the very least?

I’m also following the French public-transit-worker strike, but haven’t yet felt the need to do Google image search on that one.

Speaking of NPR and Sexiness

What is with people fantasizing about the voices on NPR? I read a piece on Nerve about Sarah Hepola getting off Ira Glass’s voice, and now Salon or someone has voted him “sexiest man living” (as if that’s not Clive Owen–please), and then of course Gawker got hold of that… and every time I read a post about this, everyone and their dog is chiming in with comments about which NPR peep they’d like to do.

And that is so bizarre to me. I mean, I’m not judging. I think it’s totally cool to fantasize about the NPR people, if that’s what works for you. Obviously, I enjoy reading people’s comments about it. But I never, ever, ever thought of any of them in that way. Here are the three most personal thoughts I’ve ever had about NPR people:

1. “Renee Montagne sounds like she doesn’t take crap from anybody. She seems kind of awesome.”
2. “I guess it would be kind of cool to have Carl Kassell do my voicemail greeting.”
3. “Why does the local weather guy on our NPR station have to say his name like that? So annoying.”

And that’s it. Their voices sound like newspeople voices to me. But other people are like, “Steve Inskeep sounds like he’d be considerate yet dirty in bed,” or “Mee-chelle Norris is probably the best dominatrix ever. She sounds like a size 4, but with good stiletto feet and a light sprinking of freckles.” And I’m like, “What? What the? Where are y’all getting this from?”

Please feel free to share your NPR sex fantasies in the comments, though. Please don’t let me stop y’all from doing that.

I want to cut my hair.

I’m saying this now so that, when my boyfriend reads it four days from now, it can help break the news to him gently.

I kind of want to cut my hair. My hair’s all long with layers now — same cut I had when I was 15, and again when I was 22, and now I’m 35 and I think that’s a little too old for this hair.

You know? I feel like I’m trying to be in a metal rock video, and those aren’t even on MTV anymore. You know what I’m saying? I want a more coifed sort of thing, yet still leave it long or medium length. But I know my boyfriend will cry if I cut it. He won’t cry where I can see him. No, he’ll keep it secret, like a man. But still.

Last time I was this size, I had *really* short hair and it looked pretty decent, I thought. And I don’t even want to go that short now. So I think it should be okay. I think it’s safe for me to purchase a Hairstyle Guide magazine…

I used to never drink red wine but now I only drink red wine. I’ve gone from merlot to cabernet and chianti, and next must be shiraz.

We bought our cat a water fountain. She likes to drink the water right from its trickle source. Some people would say it’s a waste of energy, to keep it running, but I think it’s such a small thing to make a small creature happy, and therefore worth doing. You know?

I think I’m gonna be a fairy for Halloween. Maybe. I’ll have to make the costume myself, though, because I don’t want to be a slut fairy, and therefore there’s no suitable costume in the stores. (All the women’s costumes for sale are slut costumes. Remind me to complain about that later.)

This is what I have time to do, between my long commute home and bed time:
1. monitor homework
2. monitor everyone getting fed, one way or another
3. nag about the chores that should’ve been done before I got home
4. clean up only the very messiest messes, concurrently with one of the tasks above
5. exercise with Gilad
6. nagging the kids to brush their teeth and wash their faces
7. the reading of the bedtime story
and that’s about it.

Every single other thing — dentist bank groceries bills boyfriend oil change tires laundry — I have to do over the weekend. Or during my lunch hours. Or in my dreams.

I’m glad we got a cat. This one doesn’t tear up the furniture or make a big mess, and I feel fleeting joy whenever I see her little cat face. She always has a funny or cute expression. She walks around in a constant state of “Hey guys,” or “Am I interrupting?” or “JESUS, A SQUIRREL!!” or “In my fantasies, everyone is chasing me. Look how clever I am, running away from them. Oops, sorry.. smashed into the plant again…”

Back to the Halloween thing.

Not a slutty fairy, and not a pink or purple fairy, and not a gothic fairy, and not an overtly glittery fairy. I want to be a nature-based fairy, in shades of green or aqua with brown, and only a little bit of magic in evidence. In my mind, as I design it, I think the words “pond fairy.” I’m a pond fairy, dammit. We’re going to a party where I always feel a little insecure. No, strike that — I always feel insecure at any Halloween party we go to, because I feel like there’s this giant expectation that all the women must be dressed promiscuously, and they all must be thin, and the whole purpose of the holiday is to put them on display to the men serving them liquor.

And that’s fine — I’m grown-up enough to ignore any bullshit that I don’t want to take part in. But at the same time, I want to get all into it and make a nice costume. Yet I feel there’s no use in wasting my creativity on such an event. You know?

I guess I could go to the Ren Fair, because the people who go there are more appreciative of creativity. But we’re bored of going there and seeing the same exact stuff year after year. So I tell myself to make whatever costume I want, and then to photograph it and put it on my Flickr, and that’ll make it worth the effort. But then I feel silly about that. How vain, to spend money and effort on photos meant to show off, right? (Same way I feel, now, about doing any creative thing for which I don’t already have a fee negotiated. )

Worst part: I get envious of my boyfriend. He loves to work hard on his costumes and come up with something awesome every single year. And people appreciate it, and they compliment him. Then, they look at me and think, “Not sexy enough,” and move on. And I feel… whiny because I haven’t received enough attention, I guess. Hate to admit such a weakness, but that’s how I feel. Creativity should trump plain nudity, in my mind, but it never will. Will it?

I was looking for inspiration online. (Fairy costumes, I mean.) I found this Flickr set called Convention Costumes Pool. Look at it. What do you think? How many of the women pictured here enjoyed making their costumes? And how many enjoy displaying their bodies to a bunch of convention guys? And how many women here enjoyed making their costumes, but got completely ignored in favor of the convention guys and the women displaying their bodies?

There were some bad-ass costumes among the social experiment, though. Check it:
1. Final Fantasy = awesome piping
2. meshy mer-person
3. Final Fantasy hangover?
4. Awesome Color Scheme Woman
5. I need this woman’s wig.

And you know what?

Screw it, while I’m there, I’ll just link y’all to some of my favest Flickr faves:
1. shoe fetish
2. If I had to date a non-human, it would be Relax Bear.
3. I want to eat this (then follow Jackie around and eat everything else she eats, too.)
4. Stained glass is always good.
5. So is just about anything that Jagosaurus photographs.

That’s all.

I hate to even tell this story, in a way, because I worry that talking about this subject makes me seem like a hysterical attention whore. But I am going to tell it, because it bothers me, and it happens over and over again, and I want you to believe, and understand, and go forth and change your ways or the ways of others, as applicable.

There is a man at my place of work. He’s around my age. I only see him on the elevator, but I see him every other week or so. He’s been working here for maybe six months now.

Until today, he’s never spoken to me. In fact, he seemed to take great pains to avoid doing so. If you’re a fat woman, you’ll understand this part very well. You know how you’ll get on the elevator, and one of your coworkers will be there, and you’ll smile or nod, or at least make brief, polite eye contact with that coworker, just out of human decency… And then the coworker will very overtly avoid your eye contact, with an undertone of, “Oh, God, I hope this chick isn’t hitting on me.” You know? Those guys — the ones who seem to think they’re in constant danger of being raped by a woman who isn’t thin, blonde, and implanted? ( Here is a fictional reference for you, from the brilliant creator of Achewood.)

So, I figured this particular coworker for that kind of fat-phobic guy, and I dropped all pretense at friendliness with him months ago. No big deal. Men like that are everywhere (just like old women who hate young women just for being young) and I don’t need them to notice me.

Today, I got on the elevator and he was there. So, saying nothing, I turned my back on him and watched the little numbers. He said, “Hi.” I was surprised, but mumbled hi back.

He said, “How’s it going?” I answered as briefly as possible, without looking at him. Then, he said, “Headed to lunch?” I couldn’t ignore this, but I answered in disinterested monosyllables all along. But he kept talking. He said, with an ultra-sly chuckle, “Sneaking out early, huh?”

Never mind that I was not sneaking out early, that I was in fact leaving for lunch at the same time I do every day, which is the same time a lot of people go to lunch, including him, obviously. The point is, one, he was making persistent nonsensical conversation with me, even though I had my back to him and was ignoring him as much as I could. Two, he has never spoken to me until now, and the only difference between now and the last time I saw him is…

Fifteen pounds? Gone from my ass?

What a difference a size makes, apparently. Just like I said. More than once.

I told this story to one of my best man-friends, Julio. He shook his head, saying, “He messed up. Those were lame lines. He should have just said, ‘You look nice today.'”

“No,” I said. “He should have just said nothing, because he’s never spoken to me before, so why the hell would I want to speak to him now, just because he suddenly thinks I’m thin enough to speak to?”

Julio had to concur. I polled him, at that point. I asked, “Do you think this guy thinks it’s okay to only talk to me when I’m thinner? Or do you think he didn’t recognize me?”

Julio said, “I think some guys have a filter, like an email filter. They only see women they want to sleep with, so he literally didn’t see you until now.”

Gross.

Lesson, repeated and reinforced: Only talk to me now if you were already talking to me when I was fat.

And, for the record: I see everyone, whether I want to sleep with them or not. Even when I don’t want to sleep with a person in my building, I can bring myself to give them a small, phony smile. If I can do it (and I’m a bitter, miserable bitch), then anyone can do it. Show some human decency, people — maybe it’ll make you more attractive.

In more important news…

I love having a house, but I’m having trouble keeping up the lawn. (I also have trouble keeping the house clean, but the homeowners’ association doesn’t charge me for that, so who cares.)

I feel horrible about this, but I think it’s time to hire people to do my lawn. On a regular basis, maybe. See, I can get my teenaged son to mow, and I can even get him to edge and trim the hedges, but there’s no way we can compete. Not with the crappy hand tools I have in my garage. Even our edger, which is actually a weed eater, kind of sucks. In order to do the job right, I need a heavy-duty edger, a chainsaw, some giant loppers with very long handles, and, like, a goat.

And I can’t afford that stuff right now. So, I’m calling in the mens.

Recent Fantasies

You know what I think the sexiest gift would be? It’d be if you bought someone five or six gift certificates to their favorite stores, plus a gift certificate to a nice restaurant near their favorite stores, so they could have lunch amidst their shopping.

The thing is, you couldn’t get them certificates for stores that sold anything practical. No Target, no Wal-Mart, no department stores — because then they might be tempted to use the money on something practical. You’d have to do small boutiques only. Or super specialty stores. And you’d have to get them in luxurious amounts, like $100 each. See, that’s my fantasy — to win the lottery and then buy my friends this stuff for their birthdays. Five or six gift certificates, stacked up and tied with ribbon. Forced shopping. Sexy fun.

Here are my five, impractical fantasy gift certificates:
Sephora
the Body Shop
Ulta (a local salon products shop — God, how many bottles of crap do I need?)
Borders
the Bead Shop, in Houston’s Rice Village

I’m getting faint just thinking about it. I’d better quit…

1. Going to the beach with my kids and my friends. This weekend, if it doesn’t rain.

2. Vicariously, the kids’ last day of school. It’s tomorrow. Although my boyfriend and I are bitterly envious of them and wish we could have a summer vacation, too, I can be very happy for them at the same time. Yay, summer.

3. Getting home tonight and watching more Battlestar Galacticas (with my kids, who make the funniest observations about the show).

4. Losing enough weight so that my new slate-blue blouse looks very pretty instead of just cute. Should be a week or two, now that the ball is rolling.

5. My next two books coming out in spring of 2008.

6. Spending time with my boyfriend, alone, next weekend. Maybe going with him to our fave teahouse in the afternoon, and then playing some cards.

7. The next Harry Potter book, because I’m a nerd. The next Harry Potter movie, because I’m kind of a complete dork, in case the BSG item didn’t already tell you that.

8. The next time I travel. Don’t know when it will be, but I am very much looking forward to it.

Things I Always Want to Do, but Don’t

1. Go to a farmers’ market. Last one I went to was in Rice Village (frou-frou shopping center), more than a year ago, and it was unsatisfying. But I know there are better farmers’ markets in town. I even know where they are – – I just have to get off my butt and go to one. I guess I don’t because no one I know cares about farmers’ markets, and I don’t like to do things alone?

2. Go roller skating. In a rink, or on the street, I don’t care. Long, long-time readers may remember that I bought men’s rollerskates — black and fluorescent green low-tops — from Academy a long time ago, then used them on the sidewalk in front of the double-wide trailer where I used to live. But I don’t know what happened to those skates after I left that house. I think I might have sold them. Anyway, I want to skate again, in a better venue. With high top, pink and white, vinyl ladies’ skates. And pom-pom laces.

3. Go to the zoo. With my friend Ashley. For a long time. And look at every single animal. (Every time I go to the zoo with my kids and/or boyfriend, they complain and make me go home without seeing everything.)

4. Goddammit, I want to go to an amusement park and ride the rides. Dammit! And not alone. Now that Houston’s Astroworld has closed down, that won’t be as easy. But I’ll do it some day, dammit. You hear me, people? I’m not playing around.

Things I Always Buy but Never Use

1. Coloring books with pictures of historical costumes.
2. Liquid eyeliner in metallic colors.
3. Cross-stitch patterns for samplers and fruits.
4. Crochet patterns for Barbie outfits.
5. Cookbooks about canning and pickling.
5. San-x stationery.
6. Knee-high socks.

I think this means that my secret inner gay man, my secret inner Midwestern housewife, and my secret inner Japanese school girl are fighting to take over my soul.

Use this for a meme if you want.

1. I fantasize that, after getting rich, I hold an awards ceremony for my favorite food service people in Houston. Larry from Jack in the Box, Ana from the cafeteria at my work, and the entire morning shift of my fave Einstein Brothers Bagels, among many others, would be honored for their awesomeness. With cash prizes, probably. I could make a non-profit organization to handle the awards every year. Hence, I could write it off on my taxes.

2. I wish I knew Kung Fu well enough to protect myself from someone holding a gun. That way, I wouldn’t be as worried all the time. (Why don’t I take classes, then? I don’t know. I just never do.)

3. A big fantasy is that I could find a way to keep people from being such jerks all the time. I don’t believe that most people are jerks, but I do believe that the real jerks spread negative energy starting each morning at rush hour, and it ripples outward exponentially until night. My dad thought this one up, and I stole it from him. He wished he had a ray gun that would, upon shooting someone, straighten out every cell in its victim’s body. You know – just straighten them the hell out. Give them the manners and morals their parents forgot to teach them. Erase whatever trauma made them jerks in the first place. Make the world a better place for everyone to live.

4. This morning on my commute that has become over an hour long now that school’s begun, I revisited an old fantasy in which I am a very good dancer. I think it would be nice to dance well. I’ve never really been very good at it. I’m okay – passable – but also sometimes awkward, and always self-conscious. I wish I could be the kind of person who unselfconsciously dances alone in the middle of the floor, without being drunk first, either.

5. I often fantasize that I become just famous and/or rich enough for customer service people to always be nice to me. But not, you know, famous/rich enough for people to stalk or bother me. I don’t want to be the kind of jerk who snaps her fingers at people and gets her ass kissed for it. I’m just saying – it would be nice to be treated with respect, even if I weren’t wearing designer clothes or driving a Jaguar. You know? I try to treat people with respect and I’m a good tipper. But sometimes, (read: at Capital Grille), that’s apparently not enough.