All day long I look at people doing things they don’t want to do, or not doing things they do want to do. It’s depressing.

Obviously, most of us have to work for our living. But does that also mean that we have to talk about the weather? Eat bland food? Buy only one bag, and make sure that bag is black so that it goes with everything? Watch whatever they put on the TV at 7 PM? Stay home when we’d really rather be out, doing anything else? Drive by places we’d like to see, but tell ourselves we can’t go in, for no reason at all? Wear whatever set of something that someone put on a rack? Keep our opinions to ourselves? Keep our eyes down? Laugh at things that aren’t funny? Smile at people we don’t like? Do things for people who don’t appreciate it, and wait in vain for them to do things for us? Do the same things every day, even if they’ve never made us happy?

Why, people? Come on and love yourselves better. If you don’t, who will?

A Sad Story About Body Image

A while back I hauled my boyfriend, Tad, to the 35th anniversary celebration of MECA, the local non-profit arts organization at which I used to do artsy stuff as a teenager. Someone there had made a DVD compilation of many shows they’ve hosted over the years. One of them was West Side Story, staged in 1989, in which seventeen-year-old me played Anita.

My boyfriend Tad wanted to see the whole thing, so we borrowed MECA’s old VHS tape of the first half. (It’s like, three thousand hours long, and no one knows where the VHS of the second half is.) I told the MECAns that I would have it copied to DVD and then return it postehaste.

At home, Tad and I made popcorn (or glasses of wine, can’t remember) and settled in to watch the blast from my past. We pushed Play on the VCR (that I still keep plugged in because it’s the only way we have of connecting the DVD, the PS2, and the XBOX360 to our TV. I know — I need to upgrade.)

Just hearing the intro music made me nervous. Then, I saw myself on stage in my red satin dress with salsa petticoats, in the long, brown, curly-haired wig that covered my tacky ’90s skater hair, in the flat jazz shoes I had to wear instead of the sexy character shoes that everyone else wore, so that I wouldn’t be taller than Bernardo… and the first thing I thought was, “God, I’m so big.”

I was 5’9″, size 6.

God, I was so big.

I’m not saying that as a former or current sufferer of body dysmorphia. I’m just telling y’all that, compared to everyone else I knew then, I was very big.

Watching the show made me uncomfortable. I don’t think I’d ever even seen it before in its entirety, but watching myself on the TV that night instantly freaking transported me into the prism of awkwardness that I was way back then. I saw my lackluster dancing and it made me feel, again, the fear of putting my arms out too far, standing up too straight, and being too big for the stage, my man, and everyone else. I heard my minimalist line recital and felt again the fear of being too Latina or not Latina enough. Too good or not good enough. I looked at my own face and re-felt all the worries, fears, insecurities, and awkward, awkward, embarrassing, humiliating, shame and guilt and insecure, fearful, worried etcetera. All the time. Every day.

“This is terrible,” I said.

“This is awesome,” Tad said. “You were hot. I wish I’d known you back then. I mean, even though I was only eleven years old and you wouldn’t have talked to me. But still.”

“I’m so big,” I said. And then I told Tad everything I just told you, about the insecurity and the awkwardness and the bleh.

He said I wasn’t big at all. He said, “Baby. You were a woman, and those other girls were girls. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Why didn’t he tell me that back then? you’re wondering. I don’t know.

Anyway. I called my friend Letty, also a MECA survivor, and she told me she often felt the same way. Too big. Not small enough. Weird. Ungainly. Grotesque. Like a monster. Funny how the world can make you feel that way, while simultaneously exploiting girls your age for illegal pornography. You know?

So anyhow. I decided not to have the VHS tape made into a DVD. I don’t want that thing. It doesn’t make me happy.

I was kind of sad not to see the second half, though. The second half contained my best song — a duet with my friend Tania, who got the Maria part but wanted Anita, while I got Anita and wanted Maria so badly. I think we did very well, considering that she was the natural alto and I was the second soprano.

Also, the second half contained the “struggle” scene, which was pretty much an attempted rape scene, in which Ziggy Garcia played a white guy Jet who wanted a taste of spicy Anita, and in which I regularly fought Ziggy off, sometimes to the point of hurting him, and once to the point of my wig falling off. That was a fun scene to play. It was cathartic, at least — all that angst getting channeled into violence. Getting to be angry in front of everybody. Being glad, for the moment, that I was big.

A Sad Message for Twenty-Something Women

I’m going to tell y’all something that a thirty-something woman told me, back when I was in my twenties. Because it was something I never would have known, otherwise, and because I love y’all. Here it is:

The first part of you to get old is your stomach.

Your digestive system, to be exact. That’s the first thing on your body to fall apart. When you turn thirty, something on that trail will start slacking on the job. Acid reflux. Constipation. Gall stones. Flatulence. Etcetera.

You’ll think back to all the times you heard older people make weird, random-seeming complaints like, “I need more fiber” or “I wish I could eat processed meats” or “Today’s one of those mashed-potatoes-only days for me.” And you’ll be like, “ZOMG! Now I know what they’re talking about! And therefore, I am turning old!”

And you’ll be right. And you’ll be sad.

I’m just telling y’all because I love y’all, and I don’t want you to be scared when you turn thirty, thinking that it’s only happening to you. It’s not. It’s happening to us all, and we will all end up eating nothing but mashed potatoes and oatmeal. It’s the cycle of life.

Toby Update

1. Starbuck still doesn’t like Toby.

2. Toby still feels a need to dig in the houseplant, although I couldn’t tell if it was for waste products or just for fun.

3. Toby discovered that food and water taste even better when they come from Starbuck’s bowls.

4. Starbuck kind of hates Toby’s guts, actually.

5. I forgot to tell y’all the other day that I think Toby’s part Siamese, or some other kind of Asian cat ethnicity. You can’t really tell in the pics I’ve shown you, but he has the Asian cat eyes and head shape. When we got him, he didn’t really meow a lot. When he got home, I noted that he would meow once, in response to his name. (Smart boy.) But then, last night, at 1 AM, Toby decided he needed to meow. A lot. It was like, “Meow. What’s up, y’all? How come everyone’s lying down and all the lights are off? What’s everybody doing? Why isn’t anyone petting me? Hello? HELLO-O-O-O!”

And I was like, “Oh my god, someone’s on fire!” as I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen to warm a bottle or catch vomit in my hands or fight off a monster or whatever. But it was just Toby, speaking his mind. He got quiet as soon as I came out and found him. He even stayed quiet when I tripped over his giant cat body in the dark. So I pet him half a time, told him to play quietly, and went back to bed.

Thirty minutes later, it started again. “Hello! You guys! What’s up? I thought y’all woke up and were gonna play with me! How come I’m the only one talking? Meow!”

I ignored him so he wouldn’t be rewarded for his noise-making. He quieted down. Then, an hour later, he piped up again. But this time it was more like, “Meow yow yow, doo dee doo… Here I am, walking around. I think I’ll eat from this bowl. Mm, that was good. Hmm. Why’s that other cat hissing at me again? Man, it sure is quiet in here. Hey, what’s that out the window? Man, I sure am awake now. Funny how I’m the only one…”

And then I thought that he sounded Siamese. Because isn’t that something Siamese cats do? Talk to themselves?

6. I took more pictures of Toby and Starbuck, with a Mexican piggy bank next to each for scale. Didn’t have time to post them, though. I’ll have to do that later today, after the day job is done.

Shimmy Update

I’m still doing the Shimmies. However, I’m starting to realize that belly dancing in sweatpants and a t-shirt could never be as fun as belly dancing in a hip scarf and sequined bra.

That’s how they get you, see. That’s how they get you hooked. They make you shake your hips to the too-mellow music, and then you wish you had fake gold coins to keep the beat. Next thing you know, you’re spending all your money on costumes and spending all your weekends at the Renaissance fairs.

It’s a racket, I tell you. “Sensual dance with mystical origins, as old as the sands of time.” Sure. That’s how old the hip-scarf-selling racket is. I should have known.

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.

Someone just asked you out. You know why? Because you’re sexy, dammit. Aren’t you flattered? Of course you are. And yet, unfortunately, your feelings for the other person are not mutual. You don’t want to go out with him/her. So, what next?

You tell him or her the truth.

Ouch, right? Painful for the other person, awkward for you. It’s so awkward, I can totally see how you’d want to avoid the whole conversation altogether. I know, because I’ve been there, and I’ve given all the wrong answers. And now I know why they’re wrong:

Don’t lie.
Do not lie. Don’t say, “Uh, not this weekend, but maybe some other time.” You might think that doing that is a nice way to let the other person down, or to hint that you’re not interested. But it isn’t. It only gives him or her a reason to try again later. Yes, you can reason that, after you’ve turned the person down three times in a row, he or she will get the hint. But then, you’ve wasted that person’s time, and gotten his or her hopes up for nothing. Why? This person doesn’t deserve to be misled just because he or she thought you were sexy. So don’t do it.

Don’t give him or her the wrong phone number.
I know it’s easy to reason that this is a nice method, since it delays the asker’s embarrassment until he or she is alone. But it’s not nice. It’s mean, because it gives the other person even more hope before letting them down. Not only that, but it inconveniences the person whose number you actually gave. (You know–your number with the last two digits transposed. Yeah. The old woman who has that number is tired of getting calls from people who wanted to take you to the movies. She’s trying to watch House. Quit bothering her.)

Don’t be an asshole.
Don’t say, “As if!” Don’t say, “Oh, hell no!” Don’t say anything rude. Why would you do that? What kind of evil jerk are you? I don’t care if the person who asked you out is ugly, smelly, stupid, and has alien genitalia that’s incompatible with yours. It still took that person a lot of guts to ask you out, and you need to respect the polite show of interest.

Obviously, if you are that kind of evil jerk, you aren’t reading a blog post about how to be polite. So I won’t go on and on about how being rude exposes you as someone with low self esteem. I’ll just end this paragraph by reminding everyone to treat others as you’d like to be treated.

Here are suggestions for things you can say.
Memorize them if you need to, because I know that you’re very sexy and therefore someone is bound to ask you out any moment now.

“No, thank you. I’m flattered, but I never really thought of you in that way.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet… but no, thanks. I couldn’t.”

“I’m gonna have to say no. But I would like to stay friends, if that’s okay.”

“Thank you for asking, but I’m seeing someone else right now.”
(If the asker is in your social circle, you shouldn’t say this unless it’s true. Otherwise, it jacks up future opportunities for you to hook up with mutual friends.)

Here’s one my friend Letty told me, for when the asker is being a little ambiguous, as if he/she might actually want your number for networking or to sell you Pampered Chef products or something:
“Why don’t you give me your number instead, and I’ll call you when I have time.”
Then, you don’t call. Or, hey–call when you want a Pampered Chef baking stone, and pretend you never realized the interest was romantic. Who could turn down the opportunity to make a sale, platonic or not?

“Dude, I would totally have sex with you right now, on this table, but my husband/wife/cult leader would kill me.”

“Thank you, but I’m not looking to date anyone right now. Hey, have you met my friend Samantha?”

The Corollary:
How to Respond When Someone Turns Down Your Direct Hit

You just hit on a sexy person, and he or she turned you down. They did it politely, but ouch, that shit hurt. So embarrassing. So disappointing. No one likes to get rejected. It sucks.

I know, because the last time I told someone that I liked him and he told me the feelings weren’t mutual, it burned like the heat of a thousand sucks. But at least he told me politely, and for that I’ll always be glad.

So. What do you do? You stand there, go “Gulp!” real loud in your throat, and accept the rejection as graciously as you can. Here is what you can say:

“Okay. Well, just thought I’d check and see. Let me know if you change your mind,” or
“Okay. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying, can you? [wink]” or
“All right. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” or
“Okay, well, I hope we can still be friends,” or
“Aw, man. That was embarrrassing. I appreciate your honesty, though. Later.”

Do NOT say:
“What? Why not??” or
“But… but… I thought…” or
“I think you’re making a big mistake, because…” or
“Well, then you’ve been leading me on all this time,” or
anything with bad words in it.

Do not argue with the person. He or she knows better than you whether or not he/she wants to date you.
Do not ask for explanations. You can’t expect someone to answer that truthfully, anyway. “Because you’re creepy. Because you’re whiny. Because I’m too materialistic to date someone who makes as little money as you do. Because I’m holding out for someone I’m too scared to ask out.”
See how horrible that sounds? You don’t want to hear that, do you?”

Do not get angry.
It’s okay to feel angry (or hurt, or disappointed), deep inside your mind, alone in your room at night, but you can’t act on that feeling, because it’s inappropriate. Because–face it–no one owes you a freaking date.

See, the reason so many people don’t turn down dates honestly and politely is because either a) they never learned how, or b) the last time they did, someone freaked out and responded with anger, accusations, or incessant demands for a satisfactory reason. Or stalking. Or crying. You know–general awkwardness.

Be as gracious as you can. That way, you leave a good impression. And that leads to the possibility of your target changing his or her mind, or at least hooking you up with his/her friends.

Friday: Went to MUD to request in person that they set up my water account, as per the Rules of the MUD. Bought a couch which is back-ordered til mid August. Bought paint, and a lawnmower, and other housely things. Began what would soon be realized to be the longest cleaning job of my life.

Saturday: Prepped. Painted. Packed. All. Day. Long. Discovered that the painting will take four times longer than I’d first envisioned. Went to bed early.

Sunday: Up at 7:30. Tad and I packed while Mario and Letty continued the painting. Moved in between 3:30 and 6 PM. Took Letty and Mario to a Post Painting Dinner. Remembered at 10:30 PM that we needed to pick up a suit for Tad’s next-morning job interview. Got home late, slept like corpses. Everyone was sore from packing and painting.

Monday: Up at 7:30 to let tree-trimmers hired by the electric company into my back yard. Unpacked. Cleaned the nastiest refrigerator I’ve ever seen. Removed shelf paper that covered the nastiest drawers ever seen. I’m talking about removing crusty shelf paper that covers shelf paper covered with suspiciously curly hairs and fingernail clippings. Went to Home Depot and discovered that some men are attracted to the sight of single women shopping at Home Depot. Coveted drills and chandeliers. Made it a double by going to Lowe’s next door. Coveted faucets and ceiling fans. Bought a lawnmower’s worth of gas. Arranged for gas and trash service. Looked for things in vain. Slept like a mummy.

Tuesday: Found out where to get my mail. Was visited by utility-gas man, who gave good advice but smelled unfortunate. Drove to Austin to get my kids. Drove back again. Proudly showed kids the house. Cleaned up dog shit kids accidentally tracked onto house’s brand-new carpet. Located sheets for kids’ beds. Felt guilty for not mowing lawn. Slept like doornails.

Today: Up at 6:30 to take kids to register for new schools. At the high school from 8 AM to 10:45. At the middle school from 10:50 to 12:45. At the elementary school from 12:45 to 2 PM. Took the kids school shopping, even though it isn’t Tax Free Weekend, in order to have them try on pants, since they’ll be at their dad’s on Tax Free Weekend. Spent an hour or two at T-Mobile, replacing broken phones. Bought the new-middle-schooler his first phone. Weathered the elementary-schooler’s tears after telling him he wasn’t getting a phone. Considered buying groceries but was too tired. Took kids home and ordered pizza, caught up on Project Runway. Did a few piles of laundry. Will probably sleep like a baby.

Tomorrow: Back to work. Oh… right after I wake up early to buy groceries, I mean.

Was it all worth it? Yes. Very. Having this house is awesome, and I don’t regret any of the crazy-ass effort that went into getting it. So, it’s all good. I’m happy. More later, when I have something not-moving-related to say…

Because I’m going into surgery at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I went to meet with the surgeon today at 3, and he said, basically, in a nutshell, paraphrased, “Jesus Christ, we need to take that shit out of you as soon as humanly possible.”

Luckily, one of his patients had flaked on her 7:30 AM surgery tomorrow, so I ran down to Preadmissions and, in a 4-hour jiffy, was set up to take her spot.

Whew.

I love my boyfriend, my cousin Helen, and my friends Letty and Brie for offering to help me out with the hauling of my kids to and from school. Y’all rock. (Wait by your phones, okay?)

The doctor said some people actually get over the surgery in as little as one day. I’m going to see if I can do that. I’m ambitious about it. But he also said he’s going to have to do the three-hole laparascopic on me, and that the third hole will be bigger than usual, since my gall stone is bigger than usual.

Oh, shoot… I forgot to ask them if they’ll save it in a jar for me to look at it when we’re done. I need to ask them tomorrow.

My Poor Coworkers Need Surgery, Too

Yesterday, on my routine drive home from Austin (had to pick up kids from their babydaddy visitation), I made the mistake of eating tater tots from Sonic. At around 6 PM, my gallbladder started hurting. It hurt all the way home, through two Tylenols and one Aleve. After putting the kids to bed, I took a hydrocodone/acetaminophen and an anti-spasm pill, and it continued to hurt. Very badly. I cried. I writhed. I rolled on the floor. My boyfriend came over to hug me and feel sorry for me. I took another anti-spasm pill and finally fell asleep at midnight. At one, I woke up and the gallbladder was cranking up again, so I took another hydrocodone and conked out til my alarm went off at 5:30. I woke up feeling serene. Very, very serene.

While I showered and dressed and nagged my kids to do the same, my serenity slowly morphed into too-much-medication loopiness and nausea. I couldn’t decide whether or not to go to work. Finally, guilt won out and I did.

At 8:40, I walked over to my coworkers’ desks and told them that I didn’t think I could make it. I needed to go home and back to sleep.

My coworkers quizzed me about my symptoms. Then, they proceeded to tell me, as they have before, how they have the same symptoms, but worse. And that they’ve been having them for years. Since before I was born, probably. I sympathized with them and expressed the wish that they could be the ones having their gallbladders removed. Alas, unfortunately, they can’t; I guess because their doctors are too incompetent to properly diagnose them.

I feel so bad for them. They suffer so much, and hardly complain. If their stomachs hurt worse than mine, then they really are brave, to go to work on the days that I call in sick. Hopefully something can be done to ease their suffering soon.

Oh, and one of my other coworkers told me he hoped I’d feel better soon. Obviously, he has never known the pain of coming to work with gallstones, undiagnosed or not.

Meanwhile

I have to pick out suitable underwear for tomorrow. Just in case. I’m thinking either leopard-print thong, or Hello Kitty gingham thong. I would ask y’all to vote, but I probably won’t be able to read your comments until tomorrow afternoon. So don’t even bother to write and wish me well. Just think good thoughts, and get your own regular check-ups. And tell your doctor if you ever have pain and pressure under your ribs, on your right side. And check back soon, in case they let me keep my gallstone and I post a picture of it on the site.

That’s what I’ve been told. My reasons for that are very logical. My eyes have been bugging me, so I’m wearing my stern glasses instead of my contacts. My hair is finally long enough to put up into a French twist, so I have it up instead of tangling all around my shoulders and distracting me from the tasks at hand. My hair color is brown again, because I thought brown hair would go better with fall colors than blondy streaks. I can’t help that people imagine librarians with brown hair.

Sometimes, I feel like looking like a librarian.

That’s my prerogative.

I’m hungry, but I ate an Atkins Endulge fake candy for second breakfast instead of going downstairs to our cafeteria for eggs and bacon. That’s because it was already 9:30 (too late) when I thought of going to the cafeteria. It is not because…

The Downstairs Colombian’s Particular Insanity

There’s this guy who works in the cafeteria downstairs, who makes the custom salads and pastas as opposed to slopping the non-custom stuff onto plates. He takes pride in the fact that he is Colombian, unlike the other workers, all Mexican. He used to live in France with two women who enjoyed having sex with him on a regular basis. I know this because he told me, one day while he custom-made my salad. I smiled and nodded, because my general rule of thumb is to remain complacent with the people who are preparing my food. (It cuts down on the spitting.)

So he tells me all this stuff about himself, as people tend to do, then hands me my salad and says, “Oh, but I don’t even know your name.”

And I say, “I know.” And then I take my salad and go. And this guy (let’s call him Phillippe, even though that’s not his name) looks sad and slightly embittered, but oh, well. That’s life, Phillippe.

I already know, Phillippe, that you used to hit on my friend and coworker Lisa G, who is the second most beautiful woman in our company. She told me that you used to tell her stories about your swinging international pre-cafeteria life, and that you went so far as to slip a note into her salad box. She said the note smelled like Hai Karate. How many women have you hit on before asking my name, Phillippe? I assume you’re going through the ranks, from top to bottom. I appreciate that you spoke to me eight months and x-number-of-women after you hit on Lisa G – I’m sure that stands for something. I’m sure I should be proud.

So, after that, I go back for salads and other nutrition as necessary, with no hard feelings in my breast. Phillippe goes back to mumbling words at me instead of telling me fabulous tales. And that’s fine. Except… that… also… he starts calling me preciosa, too.

Preciosa means precious. But that’s not what it means. See, precious is something you call a child here, or else something some old Southern woman calls whoever she wants. It’s what my dad used to call me, actually, when I was very young.

In Spanish, though, it’s something you call your lover. Or maybe someone you want to be your lover? Or maybe they call their kids that, too. But either way, I know for sure that it’s not something you call a stranger for whom you occasionally make salads for money.

He whispered it at me when he handed me my food. Very passive-aggressive. Was it supposed to be loud enough for me to hear? I don’t know. Did he know that I had a rudimentary understanding of Spanish, because the Mexican workers who knew it told him so? I don’t know. Either way, he started calling me preciosa every time, earlier and earlier into our interactions. “Okay, okay, you don’t want onions. You don’t like them, huh, preciosa?” he would mutter, very very quietly but not quietly enough for me not to hear.

So you know what I told him?

Nothing. You know why? Because I didn’t care.

I knew that Phillippe meant to disrespect me. Believe me, I knew. He is smarter than his job requires, obviously, but because of circumstances that are probably beyond his control, he’s forced to make salad for a living. In his past, allegedly, he has traveled the world. Whether abroad or on North American soil, he is a connoisseur of women – a man of taste. He knows exactly what he finds attractive and what he doesn’t. Although he didn’t at first find me attractive enough to notice, he eventually was good enough to inform me of his sexual prowess and ask my name. And, unfortunately, I didn’t give him my name, probably because I’m a man-hater or a lesbian, or both. Now, he’s getting back at me by calling me terms of endearment under his breath, perpetrating an intimacy that doesn’t exist. Insulting me and my honor as a woman. I understand all that. I just don’t care.

God knows that I’ve felt bitterness, too. God knows I’ve felt irrational hatred, and I’ve acted passive-aggressively to people who most likely didn’t deserve it. I haven’t overtly sexually harrassed anyone, but who knows? Different cultures find different practices acceptible. Maybe I’ve hurt someone with my eyes or my hemlines? We all have our sins.

I only have an hour for lunch. I want a salad without spit or rat droppings. I’ve seen crazier, uglier, more effed-up people than Phillippe in my time. I enjoy watching people be crazy and ugly and effed-up, as long as they don’t encroach on my space. I simply can’t be bothered to remonstrate with Phillippe for calling me preciosa.

My Dad’s Buddhist Monk Anecdote

My dad and my brothers (who learn stories from my dad) like to tell me this story of a hysterical woman confronting a Buddhist monk because the monk tempted her husband away into Zen or some such. The woman runs up and, typical hysterical over-emotional female style, bawls out the monk in front of all his homies. And the monk says nothing, and eventually the stupid woman wears herself out and walks away.

“Why,” say the monk’s homeboys, “did you let that ho talk to you like that, man? I would’ve karate-chopped that bitch upside her chickenhead.”

“Because,” says the monk, all David-Carradine-like, “that woman brought her anger to me, but I didn’t take her anger from her, into myself. That’s not how I roll.”

The first time I heard that story from my dad, I said, “Are you calling me hysterical?”

The second time I heard it, from my brother, I said, “Is that why Daddy’s so introverted and emotionally unavailable?”

The third time I heard it, it was out of my own mouth, when I was telling my friend Letty the story of Phillippe.

If monks don’t have to take on the anger of hysterical women, then I don’t have to take on the passive-aggressive hostility of sad, horny men.

Knowing that makes me feel free.

Phillippe Goes Too Far

The other day, Phillippe had to help Ana at her breakfast steam table station. Ana chopped sausage while Phillippe took my order. “Buenos dias, preciosa. Como puedo servirle?” is how he decides to take it. Good morning, precious, how can I serve you.

I don’t know why he said that in front of Ana. Maybe he’d taken my hitherto silence as tacit agreement that I was, in fact, his precious. Because, all white women are sluts, aren’t they? And do I not look white?

Ana turns to Phillippe and says, in Spanish, “Why in God’s name are you calling a customer precious?”

Let me interject, at this point, that Ana knows, from our previous non-romantic breakfast taco preparation conversations, that I am half Mexican and half white, with the whiteness on the outside and the Mexican mostly hidden on the inside, and that I’m also one of those young whippersnapper Latinas with only a very rudimentary Spanish lexicon at my disposal. I got the impression, however, that she thought I couldn’t hear or couldn’t understand their conversation at that point. Ana looked scandalized (but not too surprised) at Phillippe’s incredible lack of respect.

Phillippe says in explanation, in Spanish, “What? I’m just kidding. Because, look at her – she’s so serious.”

Ana looks at me, puts on her fake customer service smile, and says in English, “He is saying ‘Why are you so sad?'”

I look her straight in the eye and say, in English, “I’m sad because strangers keep calling me preciosa.”

Ana laughs her ass off, and Phillippe looks humiliated. For good measure, and because I enjoy making people laugh, I look him in the eye and say, in Spanish, “I understand everything, but say nothing.”

Ana laughs harder. In Spanish, she says, “Tell us everything you’ve understood. What else has Phillippe said to you?”

I shook my head demurely. “No… My boyfriend told me that when the men in the cafeteria say weird things to me, I should forget them immediately and walk away.”

“She has a boyfriend!” Ana told Phillippe in Spanish. “See? Leave her alone!”

I hated bringing a man into it, but sometimes, in my culture, you have to do that. A respectable woman needs a man to protect her, and a man to blame.

Letty and I Plot to Save the World, Part MLXXVI

As part of a long, long lunchtime conversation about men, feminism, sexism, our culture, shame, hatred, and sadness that the men of our culture so often feel the need to sexually harrass us, Letty and I took two different paths.

Letty, a trained sex-abuse counselor, said that now, when Latino men take verbal liberties with her, she busts out a stock phrase that translates roughly into “Uh, no. You are going to respect me.”

I, a former sex-abuse evacuee, said that I didn’t even care to do that.

First of all, I don’t think I could memorize any new Spanish if I tried. Second, I don’t think it’s my responsibility to tell perverts to respect me, any more than it’s my responsibility to tell muggers not to mug me, or to tell jealous haters not to sneer at my new faux python bag.

Lessons Learned

I can’t control other people. I can only control myself. You can whisper preciosa at me for as long as I’m too lazy to seek salads elsewhere.

But, at the same time, if I end up humiliating you in front of your coworkers, there’s no use getting mad.

Also, Einstein Brothers Bagels makes really good salads. Maybe I will drive there for lunch today.

THE END

Remember back when blogging (i.e., online journalling) first started? And, when people made the courageous choice to put pictures of themselves on their blogs, they had to spend three days picking which one to use, then three hours Photoshopping the crap out of it so it’d be blemish-free and unrecognizable?

The first person I ever saw use real self pics on her blog was Wendy. I remember being aghast, but also incredibly interested in her picture. She looked like a real person – more real than anyone else online, all of a sudden.

While I was picking out the photos to use for this post, I thought up several self-deprecating things to say about: all the things wrong with me in these pictures, all the ways I’ve changed throughout the years, my vanity for putting them online, warnings of what I’d do if people made negative comments.

But everybody knows now that blogs are written by real people. And real people see me every day. So, screw it. I’m posting the pictures. I hope you enjoy looking through them as much as I did.

This is me as a baby, they tell me. For some reason, my hair is blonde.

This is my mom at fifteen, with her brother. I have her coloring and her height, but her face is more like my brother Erik’s than mine.

This is my dad and two of his brothers in the ’70s. My dad’s the one sporting the vest. I have his eyes, his nose, and his sarcasm. I love my dad.

This is one of my relatives on my dad’s side. I just wanted to show y’all this picture because it’s awesome. There’s a romantic story behind it, of course, but my Aunt Sylvia has passed away, so no one can freaking remember it.

This is another nameless relative on my dad’s side – the side I grew up with. As you can see, I am descended from the Latina Betty Crocker.

This is me at 2 and a half. This is the most awesome picture I’ve ever taken in my life. Unfortunately, it’s become all reddish and has a big crack in it. Some day I’ll take it to a professional photography lab and let them tell me that they have no way of fixing it.

This is me with my brothers, my cousins, and some children from our neighborhood. It’s Easter, and we’re at a campsite somewhere in Texas. I’ll let you guess which kid I am. Every time I show this picture to my family, we laugh our asses off at Randy and Biba trying to look tough. Then we covet my brother Zonky’s awesome colorblocked velour shirt, and marvel at Erik’s massive lapels.

This is me, my brothers, and my late grandmother. I think I’m in fourth or fifth grade here. The things that strike me about this picture: my school mascot was a teddy bear, Zonky’s rocking brown Toughskins, Erik obviously invented the Seattle grunge look, my grandmother’s socks don’t match, and that’s probably because she had to take so much freaking medicine, as evidenced by her fold-up TV tray table.

Now we skip to ninth or tenth grade, when my friend Letty and I discovered the importance of photographing ourselves for posterity. And it was a good thing, too. I don’t ever want to forget the ’80s and how we all dressed like those guys from Scritti Politti, whether we were boys or girls. Also, you will note that Letty’s household was Catholic, as evidenced by the huge crucifix on the wall.

There was this guy who used to hang out around our little church-sponsored non-profit arts-organization/teen-musical-theater-troupe digs. He was trying to get his BFA in photography. He took artsy photos of us for his portfolio and, in exchange, made us prints for our grant reports and such. He also gave me my own prints, because I was such a good artsy model for him. It’s easy to be a good artsy model. All you have to do is get a weird haircut, wear a lot of black, and stand around in front of murals painted by at-risk youth.

This is me and Almadelia in Zaragoza, Mexico, feeding a goat.

This is me at 17 or so. I’m doing a show. I love this picture. You know why? Because I was never, ever (and am still not) as confident as I appear there on that stage in front of all those people who are sitting there spellbound, waiting for me to sing a song from Leader of the Pack. Performing arts is good for kids. It teaches them to fake it.

This was me getting ready for a show.

This was me doing a show.

That’s right! It was CATS! Oh my gosh.

This is me sporting a dress Letty found at Salvation Army for 25 cents. I’m waiting for Rendell Contreras to pick me up and take me to his prom.

Rendell’s friend’s van broke down on the way. We ate at a Szechwan Chinese restaurant. I fell asleep during the ride home. That was his prom. Y’all remember what happened at my prom.

This is me in 1990. That explains my black tights. I’m getting ready to go to my job at the Texas State Capitol. That was where I saw my first Macintosh computer.

Magically, very shortly after that, I’m getting married. I love this wedding picture. It shows that I have my priorities straight.

Very soon after that, here I am with a baby. The stork brought him to me. He’s very smart, beautiful, and awesome.

Another baby. I like how this one is smart, beautiful, and exceedingly pissed-off-looking.

This is the picture that usually inspires a comment about “babies having babies,” because I look pretty young in it. But you know what? I really wasn’t that young, relatively, in the grand scheme of things. I was 22.

Whoa. A third baby. This one is smart, beautiful, and sporting the sweet-ass Batman costume I sewed him myself.

So… here’s a picture that makes me a little sad. I’m a housewife. I have three babies. I’m back in Houston for the weekend, visiting my friend Letty. We went to the Firesale on 19th Street and took pictures of ourselves trying on silly clothes. When I look at this picture, I remember that that drab olive shirt was the fanciest one I had. I remember thinking that mascara and Chapstick made me look a little slutty. I remember that I used to stutter when I spoke to other adults, because I got to do it so rarely. I remember trying on that red hat was shocking, wicked fun.

Next time I’m a housewife, I’m gonna do it in a lively city, surrounded by friends and family.

Meanwhile, here’s my brother Zonky with Jane Seymour and a castle in the background.

(She was getting her OBE.) (Whatever that means.) (It just means they call her Lady Jane Seymour now, I think.)

Also meanwhile, here’s my dad with Uncle Manuel, Uncle Richard, and Aunt Sylvia. Uncle Richard and Aunt Sylvia died of cancer. Hey, all you old people out there – go to the freaking doctor! Get your regular check-ups! Start your chemo before it’s too late!

I miss them.

Even though this picture shows me weighing the most I’ve ever weighed, I still like it. I still love myself for my mind, you know?

A year and a half later, I lived at this apartment complex, here in Houston.

An Atkins diet later, I looked like this.

You can see in this one how broken my nose is. If I’m not smiling, it makes me look like I’m scowling or smirking. That’s why people think I’m a bitch when they first meet me. Then, I smile and they change their minds. But they shouldn’t. They should stick with their first impression, as they find out later, when it’s way too late. Mwah ha ha ha!

Since I left the non-profit, they switched from Broadway and ballet to Aztecs and mariachis. I came back just in time to try on an Aztec sun dance hat.

This was when I got glasses, in order to look more professional and thereby leave the non-profit sphere.

This is how my kids see me, two years ago.

This is how my kids never see me, last Halloween.

These are my kids.

This is how I look when I’m standing next to my boyfriend Tad, wearing contacts.

This is how my boyfriend Tad sees me with my cat, who is his fierce rival.

Finally, here I am, last weekend, with my blonde highlights. And fatter again, but happier, too. Photos don’t lie.

Really, this picture was what started it all… All I meant to do was show y’all my hair.

Both via “What if no one’s watching?”

This is the End-of-Year Meme.

1. What did you do in 2004 that you’d never done before?

Walked into a bookstore and saw a book by me. Also, I passed out from drinking.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

If I had one, it was probably to lose some weight, and I did, but then I regained it. If I make one for next year, it will be to finish a second and maybe a third book. Yes. I’m making that resolution now. I will finish a second and then a third book.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

My friend Dot and my boyfriend’s sister, both to awesomely cute babies.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No, thank gosh.

5. What countries did you visit?

Just America, where I live.

6. What would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004?

A writing career that doesn’t necessitate a concurrent day job, and a laptop.

7. What dates from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

I’m not the date-etching type. But I will always remember the day in May that my boyfriend and I broke up over a long-distance phone call. And the day in August when he came back home from LA. And October 22, when I had my book party.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Revising galleys.

9. What was your biggest failure?

My book party. Not as many people attended as I’d hoped would.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I got the flu and a couple of really bad PMS episodes. And I had my wisdom teeth removed, which isn’t really an illness but feels like one afterwards.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

I bought 5 purses for $60 on Harwin in one day. And, later, a pretty pair of slingbacks with pointy toes.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Tiffany’s, Yvonne’s, Tad’s… everyone who managed to score an awesome new job or contract in this economy. Letty’s, because she got married.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

That of those who didn’t vote, and those who voted for Bush. And Bush’s. And Justin Timberlake’s. And the American Idol judges’.

14. Where did most of your money go?

To the rent and gas stations.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My book showing up on Amazon.com. And my stupid book party. And my boyfriend coming back home from LA. And my oldest son learning to go to coffee houses after school on his own.

16. What song will always remind you of 2004?

That one by Maroon 5 that they never stopped playing: “This! Love! Has! Taken its hold on me…”

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? both

b) thinner or fatter? a little fatter, average net weight

c) richer or poorer? poorer

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Writing and monitoring my tires.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Yelling at my kids and overdrafting my bank account.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Christmas Eve I’ll have dinner with my dad and brothers and do some writing at home alone. I’ll spend all Christmas Day with my boyfriend, being happy.

21. Did you fall in love in 2004?

I loved.

22. How many one-night stands?

None, ever.

23. What was your favorite TV program?

I watched a lot of What Not to Wear, Trading Spaces, and various VH1 stuff.

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

No. I ended some relationships that weren’t working out, but not hatefully. If anything, I decreased the intensity of my dislike for the very few people I almost hated the year before.

25. What was the best book you read?

Kitchens by Bananas Yoshimoto, maybe.

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Sasha’s Involver.

27. What did you want and get?

Contact lenses. Long hair. Opportunities to sing karaoke. My boyfriend back.

28. What did you want and not get?

A laptop. A new mattress for my oldest son. A vacation. Child support.

29. What was your favorite film of this year?

Probably Spider-Man 2.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I haven’t had it yet. It’ll be Monday, and I’ll be 33. The plan is to have lunch with Yvonne and Tiffany, then to spend the evening with my kids. Maybe we’ll order pizza. I may get a cake, but probably not. (Boyfriend has to work that night.) My two Capricorn cousins and I will have dinner tomorrow night to celebrate all our birthdays together.

31.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

If my book had magically been successful enough, in its first month of availability, to enable me to quit my day job. Or, more realistically, if I had gotten the child support the court had ordered my children’s father to pay.

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?

“I can’t afford to wear anything other than boring black and solids in traditional shapes, but cheap, brightly colored purses will distract everyone from that fact.”

33. What kept you sane?

Writing in my journal and hashing things out with my friends.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I guess it was Gael Garcia Bernal, even though I’ve never even fantasized about having sex with him or anything. (If he were mine, I’d just put him in the window to look at.) I don’t think I imagined having sex with any celebrity this year. Unless it was Matt Damon, very briefly. But it wasn’t. There was no one that I can remember.

35. What political issue stirred you the most?

The election? Is that a political issue? If not that, then the travesty that was the Iraq war. Preemptive striking.

36. Who did you miss?

My late Aunt Sylvia, and my boyfriend when he was in LA and when he had/has to work nights. And my kids, over the summer when they were with their dad. And right now, when they’re spending Christmas holiday time with their dad.

37. Who was the best new person you met?

Um… Hmm. I meet cool people all the time, and I’m not sure how I’d decide which was “best.” I was glad I met Tiffany, Brie, June, Lisa, Steven, Thep, and other awesome people. (If anyone I named was someone I actually met last year, then… sorry!)

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004.

That I can’t force others to love me, but that I can always love myself. That it really, really does not matter what strangers think of you. That it’s no shame if you don’t get vindictively pissed off every time someone wrongs you.

39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

Who are these people who can come up with song lyrics for every occasion? I’m not one of them. How about, “I’m not expecting to grow flowers in the desert/ But I can look and breathe and/ See the sun in winter time”?

Meme 2: Timeline

Gosh dang it, these are a fun way to take stock of what’s been going on in your own life.

25 years ago: I was 7. I lived in Houston with my dad, my brothers, and my dad’s extended family. My most awesome teacher ever, Mrs. Dorothea Terry, was my teacher for third grade that year. My best friend was Fay’El. I liked my school. Life was good.

20 years ago: I was 12. I was semi-popular in the sixth grade. My hair was cut in wings, but not in feathers, sadly. But my dad had let me get the suede boots with cuffs and heels, so that made up for it. Madonna was an inspiration to girls everywhere. My best friend was Dorothy.

15 Years ago: I was 17. We were poor, all of a sudden. My home life had become dysfunctional. I was spending a semester at the High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, but I would soon return to crime-ridden Reagan High School, where I felt more at home. I spent my afternoons and weekends singing my heart out in church choir, in a youth performing arts troupe, and in my teen rock band. Ballet lessons had made me graceful. I was dating one neighborhood thug or another. I dressed like a weirdo to hide the fact that I was always dirty because my family hadn’t paid the water bill for months. I wanted to go somewhere better but I didn’t know how. I was the most beautiful I would ever be in my life, but I didn’t know it. My best friend was Letty, again, who had been my best friend in kindergarten.

10 Years ago: I was 22. I had two babies and lived in a trailer with my husband in a small town outside Austin. I had dropped out of the University of Texas the year before to stay home with my kids. I worked part time at the grocery store deli.

5 years ago: I was 27. I had three kids. I had a popular web site called Gwen’s Trailer Trash Page. I made a little money writing stuff for other people on the web. I sewed and crocheted. I was the fattest I’ve ever been.

3 years ago: I was 29. I had just left my husband and was working on divorcing him. I lived with my three kids in a crappy one-bedroom apartment in the Houston Heights. I was finishing a short story collection that I was determined to get published. I was working as a secretary/PR person/grantwriter for a non-profit organization.

1 year ago: I was 31. I had been awarded custody of my kids after a long, hard divorce. I had a book deal. I had just scored a job that paid three times what I got paid when I was 29. We had moved to a way, way nicer and safer apartment. I got a new (used) car. I was dating a nice guy. My ex-husband lost his job and stopped paying child support.

This year: I am 32. My first book came out last month. I’m working on my second book. I make a little money doing readings/lectures outside my day job. My children are in the gifted/talented programs at their schools. I’m still dating the nice guy. I have several awesome friends. My car only has one dent on it.

Yesterday: I worked at my day job and had lunch with Letty. I came home and spent an evening relaxing alone. (Kids with their dad.) Was supposed to work on my second book but didn’t. Talked on the phone to my boyfriend until bed time.

Today: Worked at my day job. Came home. Started working on this blog entry instead of on my book. There was a knock at the door an hour ago. I was scared. But there was no need to be scared. It was my best friends, Yvonne and Tiffany, with their husbands, bringing me flowers and cake for an early celebration of my birthday! Yay! Oh my gosh! I love them!

Tomorrow: Tomorrow I only have to work for half a day, until the company feeds us our holiday luncheon. Then I’ll bundle up and drive to my boyfriend’s job and watch him make sushi until his break. On his break, we’ll shop and snuggle. Then I’ll kiss him goodbye and go meet my cousins at a restaurant so we can celebrate our December birthdays and then shop and maybe party a little. Then, I’ll go home and maybe pretend to work on my second book. Then, I’ll go to sleep until Christmas Eve.

You know what? I like the way this story turned out. I see now that my life is pretty good, and it’ll only get better from here.

Good night, y’all. Merry night before day before Christmas Eve.

Here’s what I want for Christmas:

• an attractive tote bag or very large purse – large enough to carry a change of clothing and/or several books and notebooks and/or bottles of water and/or whatever I might need when I take my kids to the zoo and realize that my regular purses are too small
• bamboo plants – straight or twisty
• black gloves that aren’t made of mitten knit
• lip glosses and balms
• sugar free chocolate
• a laptop
• Ghost World on DVD
• anything on my Amazon list
• anything San-X
• board games I can play with the kids
• sweaters
• clothes
• flowers

See? I’m not that hard to buy for. (Unless you try to buy me clothes.) (Unless you know me very well. Today I’m wearing a black-with-white plaid skirt, a black short-sleeved sweater, and black knee-high boots. And silver hoop earrings, and a silver ring. You wouldn’t think such simple clothing would be hard to find. But then you’d try to find it in my size, and then you’d be sad.) Plus, I like all the normal gifty stuff like journals and soaps and sparkle gel pens and stuff. So… not too hard, huh?

If you know I’m going to buy you a present this year, please post a list on your site or else just call me and tell me what you want. Because, otherwise, I’m going to agonize over it for weeks on end. Please: help me to help myself, here. Just tell me what to buy for you.

I always start off with good ideas. “Oh!” I’ll think. “I know the PERFECT gift for Randy! I’ll get him an inflatable doll!” But then, when I get to the Inflatable Doll Store, I start freaking out. There are so many dolls. They all have different colored hair and shoes. So many choices… which one is the best? Oh, my gosh. I’m so worried. What if I pick the WRONG ONE? Then Randy won’t like his gift. His Christmas will be ruined. He’ll hate me forever. No-o-o-o…

My dad is really good at buying gifts, and so is my friend Letty. They always get me and everyone else such awesome, thoughtful things. My dad does little themed gift packages, a lot of times. Like, the year before last, he got me a tea kettle with a bunch of kinds of tea and then bags of real chamomile and mint. That was awesome, and I use that tea kettle almost every day now. Letty’s technique is obviously to go to stores where they sell really cool stuff, and then just pick out several things that she knows I’d like. One year she got me a bunch of really beautiful journals with all different covers – velvet, croccodile, paisley. I used all those journals and then asked her for more the next year. Then I used the next ones, then had to go buy my own. But I could never find any as cool as the ones she’d bought me. Well – I could, but I was too cheap/self-denying to buy them for myself.

This year I’m going to make my boyfriend Tad help me pick out everything. That way, it takes some of the pressure off my conscience.

I always love it when it’s Christmas time in the books I’m reading. I like finding out what the characters get for each other. Harry Potter and Lawrence Sanders books are good about this. Little Women did it, I think. When I’m reading a book and it has pages that take place on Christmas and the author doesn’t tell us what the characters got each other, I just throw that book out the window and read something else.

I also like online forum discussions of good and bad gifts. Especially bad gifts. Other people’s choices of Christmas gifts, fictional or real, just fascinate me. Probably because choosing gifts traumatizes me and I’m trying to work through the pain.

Skip this one if you hate reading other people’s dreams. It won’t hurt my feelings.

I keep dreaming of my late Aunt Sylvia lately, which is something I hardly ever do. I don’t care if you believe me or not, but I think she only appears in my dreams on purpose. She, herself, used to have psychic dreams, so why wouldn’t she be able to appear in them from beyond the grave? The last series I had about her, it seemed that she was trying to apologize for not having supported me better during my flight from my marriage.

Over the last few nights, I’ve dreamed that I’m hanging out with her at my dad’s house. The first time, I was annoyed because my ex-husband (still married to me in the dream) had moved all my possessions there without my permission. My aunt tried to visit with me, but I was busy looking in the yellow pages for another apartment to move to.

In last night’s episode, we just hung out in the kitchen, cooking and talking. Way more mellow. I don’t know what we said, but I guess if there’s something she wants me to know, I’ll just keep having the dreams until I know it.

During my horribly necessary after-work nap today, I dreamed about my ex-boyfriend Tad. (We broke up in May, after he’d moved to LA.) Last time I dreamed about him, a few weeks ago, he was fat and sad and his kitchen staff wanted my autograph. This time, though, was much more flattering.

I lived in my own house, which had the same floor plan as his house next door. It was late at night and my longtime friend Letty was visiting me. I hadn’t been home in a while. Tad walked over to talk to us. Turns out he’d been housesitting for me. In my living room, I had several Christmas trees in full regalia and a sort-of nativity scene with Russian-esque religious idols and a big plastic Bambi. Very beautiful. I laughed with mild embarrassment while I explained to Letty that I hadn’t yet gotten around to taking down my decorations. I couldn’t remember what month it was – maybe February? I realized that Tad had been coming into the house every day and dusting all the x-mas-y plastic for me so it would stay shiny. I thought that was nice.

Letty spilled a bunch of taco fillings (piccadillo – my fave) on the old purple comforter on my bed. I told her she’d get it greasy. “That’s why we have to eat it fast,” she said. I knew she was wrong but I ate, anyway. Tad came in wearing a trenchcoat – not a Columbine gun-weilding trenchcoat, but a nice, expensive one. He informed me that he’d be spending the night. At first I balked (because Letty was there and I didn’t want her to have suspicions, I guess), but Tad remained calmly adamant. He explained that he just wanted me to be safe. So I was glad.

Tad is coming back to Houston, for good, tomorrow night.

I’m glad we’ve stayed friends.