Do you do this:
1. Get an unexpected day off,
2. say you’re going to spend it crafting or doing art,
3. but first, you need to go buy one or two supplies, so
4. you go shopping and end up spending the whole day doing so. Shopping. Nothing else.
5. Then you come home dead tired – too tired to craft or do art.

Am I the only one who does that to myself? I suspect I’m not.

Did that yesterday, because I had Presidents’ Day off, and my kids were supposed to, also, but then the school district decided to pull them back in and call it Hurricane Ike Make-Up Day, obviously because they wanted me to stimulate the economy by spending the whole day shopping. So I did, and didn’t even feel guilty about it because it turned out to be a Lucky Shopping Day for me, with the theme of Shoes.

I went to Payless, (don’t ask me how I ended up there if I was only supposed to be buying two beading supplies) and got two pairs of shoes, on BOGO sale, of course.

Later, I went to Ross Dress for Less, which is like a giant garage sale or thrift store, but with only new merchandise. If “new” can describe stuff that’s been thrown on the floor a couple of times and maybe stepped on or slobbered on by toddlers.

I only go to Ross a couple of times per year. I hadn’t been in six months or more, and last time, I got some skanky red patent platform heels, just for the hell of it, because they were only $11, once I asked for 15% off because of a scuff mark.

So I go back there, thinking I won’t look for anymore platform spike heels, because I only wore the red ones once, and only for about 45 minutes, and my feet went numb and I was sad. And that was when I weighed 15 lbs than I do now.

So… I’m there, and I’m glancing at the shoes, and … omg… there are, like, a thousand nice shoes. By well known designers. In my size. All I had to do was navigate my cart through every shoe aisle (because the sizes posted above the aisles are only theoretical, at Ross), each of which was filled with aggressive women, only 28% of whom spoke English, and one of whom wore the same size as me. But I enjoy a challenge. I zig-zagged all over, loading my cart with 8 and a half pair of shoes. (Never did find the other size 10 black Michael Kors pump, even after squatting on the floor and checking under each rack.)

As the shoe area afforded no privacy and I didn’t trust the other big-footed chick not to ambush me, I pushed my cart of shoes to the patio furniture section, where I could sit on an ottoman and try on all my loot in relative privacy.

Results:

• Ralph Lauren black snake peep-toe pump – $30: No. It was too tight on my toe fat.
• Carlos Santana gold 5-inch spike heel – $24: No. I was just kidding with that.
• Franco Sarto oxblood wedges – $19: No. Sniff! Too tight on toe box.
• Nine West gold strappy sandal with skinny 2.5-inch heel – $19: Almost, but I was too scared I’d bust ass in them.
• No-name black patent t-strap pumps with cut-out detailing – $12: Yes!
• No-name black patent/cork platform slide – $13: Yes!
• Nine West cork-soled platform wedge with navy cloth top, in which I will be 6 feet tall – $17: Yes!
• Old skool-ass LA Gear brown and pink sneaker/ballet flat – $13: yes.

As you can see, I am cheap. I have cheap feet. But at least I’m doing my part to get the economy back on track, right?

See y’all bishes at Ross! xoxox

It’s always cold on the bus. For that reason, I kind of hate riding it in the mornings, especially when I’m wearing a skirt without hose or tights or leg warmers, as is sometimes mandated by fashion in the summer time. But everyone has their crosses to bear, right?

This morning I got on the bus without hose or tights or legwarmers, and it was very cold. I put my iPod (my Sony Walkman iPod) into my ears and hugged myself into as compact a shape as possible.

The bus starts filling up, and this guy gets on. He’s a small guy, ethnic origin somewhere on the Eastern Hemisphere. He sits by me, and I take care not to sigh or jut out my elbow or even look at him, because I hate it when I’m forced to sit by someone else on the bus, and that someone else makes it clear that they’re annoyed and that they’d been wishing that their $3 fare would have somehow paid for two seats. I mean, I get annoyed when strangers sit next to me, too, and I wish my $3 bought me a force shield from strangers, too. But that’s not the way Metro works, is it?

So I’m sitting there, trying to be polite and only feeling a little bit sorry for myself, when I realize that the guy sitting next to me is hot. Not attractive-hot, but temperature hot. He’s radiating heat like a furnace. I peeked at him as much as manners would allow, but he didn’t seem to be feverish or on fire. He was just radiating heat, somehow. Like, from the inside.

I decided, then, that he must have been a demon. Either that or an elemental, but most likely a demon, because I don’t imagine elementals looking like people or wanting to ride the bus. I glanced again and saw that he was reading a text full of arcane-sounding words. (Cold fusion? HP 3200?) That seemed to confirm his supernatural nature.

I turned my face away from the demon man and, for a split second, felt uncomfortable. Then, I felt good. I felt warm. I’d been cold before, but this demon dude was literally generating enough heat to make up for the fact that I had no pantyhose on under my sandals and knee-length skirt. It felt nice, like a cozy fire.

I wondered, then, what it meant to take comfort from a demon. Was it safe? Was I unintentionally giving away my soul?

Really, there was nothing to fear. In every story I’ve ever heard on the subject, demons can’t possess your soul unless you give them verbal permission. And you have to invite them onto your premises, in the first place. Right? I’d invited this demon nowhere, as we were sitting in a public place. I hadn’t said anything to him at all. As long as I kept my Sony Walkman iPod in my ears and minded my own business, I could warm myself with the demon fire and keep my soul and its first serial rights. He wasn’t even a big demon, anyway. I didn’t think he could carry me if he wanted to.

The warmth made me sleepy and I drifted through dreams as pawn shops and Adult Video Stores sped by. “Is this,” I wondered, “how it starts? Can people get possessed in their sleep? Is demon heat a roofie?”

But we made it downtown okay. Someone rang the bell and, like zombies awoken, several of the passengers stood up and stumbled out into the sunlight as filtered by skyscrapers. The demon got up to let me pass and didn’t even spare me a glance.

I didn’t realize why until now, after typing all this. I’ve already been marked by someone else. My soul is the property of Corporate America.

intro to bus stories 2, 3, and 4

So I recently bought myself an MP3 player as a reward for a job well done. (What job is that, you ask? The job that is being myself.) And, now that I have one, I see that there’s a secret world I’ve been missing out on but am now a part of.

Before I had an MP3 player, I didn’t want to know anything about them, because I hate window shopping. You know? I don’t want to hear about stuff I can’t afford, in general. But then they got cheap, so I decided to get one, so I did my research and picked the one with the most battery life.

(Also, I waited to get one because I just had no use for one before. But now that I have a job where we’re allowed to listen to them (and where our laptops have no soundcards), and now that I ride the bus instead of driving my van and listening to my own CDs…)

Before I had an MP3 player, I ignored people who had them. I purposely spaced out when people talked about them. But not anymore.

Now, when I ride the bus, I notice who’s listening to music and who’s not. And I notice that other people notice it, too.

bus story 2

The other day, I was on the bus and I busted out my [Sony Walkman] iPod (which I will call an ipod from now on, because screw Corporate America and their branding. kleenexes! xeroxing!! orange and lemon cokes!!!).

I turned on my music and went to the place where I go to when my music’s on. It’s a place in my mind, and it’s a combination night club, costume party, trip abroad, and Houston’s Galleria mall.

So I was there, and I don’t know if it showed on my face or what, but the guy sitting across from me smiled at me.

Not in a creepy way, but in a sort of empathetic yet wistful way. Like he could tell that I was happy, and he was glad for me, and yet he maybe wished he had an ipod, too.

He seemed like a nice guy, actually. But I didn’t smile back. I just blinked at him and then looked away.

I don’t smile at strange men. Especially not on the bus.

bus story 3

Right after that, the angry-looking man next to the nice-looking man gave us both a glare. Really, he just gave a long, long glare that encompassed us, all the other passengers, and everything else on earth.

Then, the angry-looking man looked at my ear buds. Then, he took some earbuds out of his pocket and attached them to his phone.

I don’t know if y’all know this, but a lot of newer phones are also ipods now. Seriously. They are.

The angry-looking guy turned on his phone ipod, and then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I hoped that his music made him feel better. I wondered what song he was listening to, but there was no way I could ask.

bus story 4

Today I rode the bus home and I listened to my ipod. Of course. Across from me, an older woman sat there with white ear buds in her own ears. And she kept glancing at me.

“What is this woman looking at?” I thought. But that question didn’t make me as angry as it used to, because I had my ipod on and it’s hard to get angry when I’m in my music place.

The woman glanced and glanced, and then, when I had to adjust my volume, I pulled my ipod out of my bra, out of the neck of my shirt, and did so. And then the woman kept looking, but her look became very thoughtful. I thought that maybe she was noting my clever idea of going hands-free with the use of my bra. She was maybe thinking, “Wow. It fits in there so well. I wouldn’t have even guessed she had an ipod in her bra.”

Then, the woman lifted her own ipod from her lap. It was a real iPod, and it had a leather case with an apple on it and everything. When she lifted it and opened the case, she glanced at me again.

I couldn’t help but suspect that she wanted me to notice her. I suspected that she’d just gotten that new ipod, maybe for a gift or maybe she went right into the apple store and bought it for herself, for a job well done.

She flicked at the buttons and I wondered how many songs she had. I wondered which ones were her favorites.

She glanced at me again. I smiled at her and then I closed my eyes.

moral of the story

If we were in Japan, our ipods would send out signals to each other, and we’d know when we were near another person who likes the same songs that we do.

But we’re not in Japan. So all we can do is imagine, and then empathize.

Right?

It’s good for women who care about their image to be friends with women who also care about their image and who have a similar taste level.

Because you know how shallow people ask if women dress for men or for other women? I dress for myself, but having a female peer inspires me to greater heights in that regard.

Hence, I bought the silver sandals.

actually learning at a training thing

At my job today, my dept was forced to take a time management seminar. Basically, it was punishment for the actions of one or two disorganized people. I was super, duper annoyed with the situation, because I had a lot of work to get done today and I’m normally very efficient at work, but it’s hard to be efficient when you’re taking a four hour course about time management.

So I went in as a hostile witness, basically. I was determined to learn nothing. I admit it.

But then, of course, I did learn a little. I learned tips for managing my personal time, and also several things about myself. Here they are:

1. I manage my time super efficiently at work.
2. I don’t manage my time as well at home.
3. I have a Type A personality, relatively, for a girl.
4. My job takes up too much of my time now.
5. Instead of trying to help people by trying to figure out the answers to questions I don’t already know, I should totally send them to the person who knows and save us both the time.
6. I would probably make a benevolent dictator of a manager.
7. I hate the word veggies a lot and need to add it to my list of words and phrases that annoy the living shit out of me, such as comfy, hubby, baby bump, sweet spot, and tongue bath.*

You want to know the tip they taught me that’s going to help my personal life? You make a Master List. You put on it all the stuff that you have to do in the conceivable future. (I already do that, but here’s the key:)

Then you use that to make Daily Lists each day. You only fill the Daily Lists with stuff you really need to do that day, or stuff you could reasonably accomplish in one day.

See, the Master List is to clear your mind. The Daily List is the real to-do list.

See? Up til now, I’ve been making periodic, mile-long Master Lists and then getting disheartened when they take more than a week to finish. But this way, you don’t put unrealistic pressure on yourself to complete everything in an unrealistic time frame. You see??

Maybe you already knew that. Maybe you took the same seminar. I’m pretty sure one of my friends has taken it, because she talks about “eating [her] veggies” at work (meaning, getting least pleasant tasks out of the way) and

R-R-RE-E-E-E-E-ETCH

Sorry. I really hate that word.

The older I get,

the more I like to hang around with secure and successful people. I especially like to talk to super successful people and ask them nosy questions about their lives. The most successful ones are always willing to tell you everything, I find. I think they get lonely, successful people. I think they don’t often meet people who want to know what they really do and who’ll understand the answers. Because, unfortunately, a lot of people are insecure haters. Insecure haters don’t seek to understand — they just make assumptions and then hate.

You know what I mean?

Like, you’ll meet a rich real estate guy, and people will say, “Oh, he’s just rich because he’s a sell-out” or “because he’s good looking” or “because he plays the race card” or “because he kisses ass.”

But then, if you walk up to that guy and say, “So how’d you make your money?” he will straight-up tell you, “I heard that the Indians wanted in on our hotel market, but they didn’t know our business culture well enough to approach it yet. So I researched their culture and then offered my services as a liaison for a decent-sized cut.”

And you’re like, “Sweet.”

Because how can you hate on somebody for being smart/successful/awesome, unless you’re just someone who hates anyone who’s doing better than you?

You can’t. Come on. Seriously.

something else I learned today

If you are my fan, then you like what I create. You might think that means that you like me, but you could be wrong. Because you don’t really know me. You might assume that you’d like me, then see or read something that makes you realize that you really, really don’t. And it’s okay if you only like what I make and not who I am. That happens to me all the time… I like music made by people who are assholes.

If you are my friend, then you like who I am. Because you know me in real life, so to speak.

I guess it’s okay if you’re my friend and you don’t like what I create. I guess.

I talk/think about that with my arty friends sometimes, actually — what it means if we like each other, but not each others’ work.

I think I need to have both kinds of people in my life. Not “fans,” per se, with all those connotations… but people who like me, and also people who like my work, whether or not those groups overlap very much.

It’s bed time now.

I’m sad/pissed/resigned because I wanted to play World of Warcraft for a little bit, but, instead, I spent an hour and fifteen minutes on the phone with AT&T and then with Yahoo, trying to get my remote DVR function straight.

And now I’m gonna go to bed, then wake up and go back to work and work my butt off. And… I like my new job a lot, actually, but I don’t like that it feels like I’m always there now. (Or else always in my van or on the bus, on the way there or on the way back.) I feel like my free time can’t live up to my hopes anymore, and like my life is rushing by, week by week.

Then again, tomorrow is Jeans Day. Yay! Jeans Day!

That’s all, for real.

I’m not going to play WoW. I’m going to bed. Seriously.

Talk to y’all later. I have more to tell you, but it’s time for bed.

* Typing those made me grind my teeth.

Not even going to lie or feel ashamed: I am a straight-up consumerist. It makes me happy to spend money on random stuff that I probably don’t need. It makes me feel secure. Rich, even. Even if some of the people working at Neiman Marcus don’t agree. Today we went to the Galleria (frou frou Houston mall) and I bought a bunch of cheap jewelry and a cheap purse. Yesterday we went to Harwin (Houston wholesale district) and I bought… well, a bunch of cheap jewelry and a purse. Yes. Actually, Harwin was extra awesome because I ventured past the usual stores (Trendy Jewelry, called simply Trendy by those in the know, and the purse store with the drawings of purses all over it, and the Korean grocery store), and found a tiny store in the corner of a shopping center that had real Indian stuff. And I got an Indian beaded purse, plus several fabulous cheap Indian bracelets. Even a gold bangle with red beads, even though I never wear gold and hardly wear red. I love Indian stuff. But then, after that, we went to an Indian restaurant and I took my bracelet off, because I didn’t want people to think that I was some kind of Caucasian person with an Indian culture fetish. (Because everyone knows that I have an Asian culture fetish, instead. Hello.)

I’ll still pass judgement on other consumerists, though.

My boyfriend’s sister got him a Coach belt for his birthday, but it was too big. So he drove us to the nearest outlet mall so we could switch the belt for something else.

When the newest local outlet mall first opened, there was a line outside the Coach store. Why? I don’t know. I mean, I’m guessing it’s because Coach is the newest expensive thing that poor people can almost kind of afford, right?

We went to the Coach store to return the belt, and there wasn’t a line to get in, but the store was super crowded and had a snaky, cordonned line for the registers. I stood in line while my boyfriend searched for something to switch the belt for. All around me, poor girls stood in line to spend their week’s paycheck on a monogrammed Coach bag.

Remember back in the ’80s, when Coach didn’t make monogrammed bags? When they only made bags in solid neutral leather, and their catalogs proclaimed how well made they were? And gold diggers asked for Gucci and ridiculed old women who carried Coach?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Dooney and Burke, and everything with a D&B on it was valuable as gold, no matter how freaking ugly it was?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Polo? With Tommy Hilfiger? With a bunch of brands that don’t even exist anymore, but which were always emblazoned with logos or names?

I wished I could interview the poor people shopping at Coach and ask them what they were trying to buy. Do they literally believe that owning a Coach bag makes them look un-poor? Or maybe even negates their poorness?

I’m the same kind of snob my dad is. When we were children and we asked for clothing with branding or logos on it — like, say, a Pepsi cap or a California Raisins t-shirt, my dad would say, “I’m not going to buy you a shirt that advertises someone else’s product. Why should you pay to advertise for someone else? They should pay you, if they want you to wear that.”

I absorbed that lesson and others, and now I’d rather go nude than wear something with a big, giant logo, or monograms splattered all over.

Also, I’d rather be poor again than be desperate to pretend I’m someone else.

I wish everyone was stronger and less concerned with bullshit. I mean, buy yourself crap — I always do — but buy it because you like it and not because you think someone else will respect you more if you shell out a certain amount of money. You know?

I don’t know who I’m talking to, here. Those little kids at the Coach store don’t read my blog, I’m pretty sure.

I.

There’s this place in Rice Village, in Houston, called Istanbul. They make Turkish food, which I guess is kind of like Greek food but not exactly. Case in point: their dolmas taste like the ones I’ve had at Greek restaurants, except sweeter, more subtly spiced, and more awesome. The first time I had them, it was 2 AM and I’d been drinking, so I wasn’t even sure if I was imagining how awesome they were. But I wasn’t. I went back there the other night and got three orders of them. The menu says “with sweet spices and fresh dill.” They taste like cinnamon and maybe anise. I’m kind of obsessed with them.

II.

Similarly… Usually there is no good food to be had in my suburb. However, you can drive there on any given weekend and find a million billion children begging for money. They beg for bands, for choirs, for baseball teams, for Jesus, or anything. I usually give my cash to the kids who ask in the most professional way, or else kids who don’t know at all how to ask for anything and subsequently get scolded by their parents and peers.

So, the other day, I was accosted by children in front of a chain store, and I gave a dollar to the kid whose older brother yelled at him, “You’re not even doing it right!” Right after I gave that kid a dollar and he took it in a silent daze, I saw that there was also a bake sale. I walked over to examine the goods and let the very professional parents pitch to me. I bought a lemon bar and a piece of baklava. “Oh, those are interesting,” one of the dads said. “[So-and-so’s] mom makes those.”

I don’t know who so-and-so’s mom is, but that woman made the most awesome baklava I’ve ever tasted in my life. I ate that stuff two months ago and wish to this day I could find that woman and buy a whole pan of it from her. Again, there were secret spices. I divined that there was grated pistachio, plus the normal baklava ingredients — honey, butter, walnuts, philo — but there was also something else. A spice, and not a sweet one. A very subtle bit of it. Was it coriander, maybe? Turmeric? Maybe it was fresh dill.

III.

Oh my god, I am so obsessed with Moroccan chicken right now — the kind with preserved lemons and olives and raisins and olive oil — that I can barely talk about it. First, I had it at this Houston restaurant called Saffron. That was my first time eating Moroccan food, and it totally turned me on to it. But they’re only open for dinner, and we haven’t had a chance to go back.

Then, the other day, we went to Whole Foods for groceries. (No, I don’t buy my groceries there. I only buy a few things there that you can’t buy anywhere else. I’m not rich, and even if I were, I wouldn’t buy all my groceries at Whole Foods.) And, oh my god, Whole Foods’ hot deli had chicken with preserved lemons and olives and raisins. And I was so happy, I almost cried. And I bought a pound of it, then drove it home and put it in the refrigerator, meaning to eat it for dinner the next day. Then, two hours after that, I took it out of the refrigerator and ate it all, cold, and it was so good I almost broke down sobbing.

And then I went back the other day to get some more, and they didn’t have it, and I left Whole Foods without buying anything, and all the way to my car, I sang to that chicken: “How can I live without you? How can I… something, something, whatever? How can I ever, ever survi-i-i-ive?!”

But the chicken didn’t answer.

I could probably go to Central Market and buy a jar of preserved lemons, yes, knowing as I do that that is the secret ingredient. But then what would I do? What are you thinking — that I could use those lemons, and some olive, and some raisins, and some olive oil, to cook my own chicken?

No. That’s never going to happen. Come on. Be serious.

IV.

For my boyfriend’s birthday, I took him to Mockingbird Bistro. I had the braised short ribs. My plate looked just like this. I’ll let you imagine how that tasted. (Hint: It tasted completely freaking awesome.)

I felt uncomfortable in the restaurant, however, because as we were finishing our meal, it quickly filled up with the kind of rich people who believe that it’s tacky to care about one’s clothing. Either that or they just had really bad taste. I can never tell for sure. But, either way, I couldn’t stop staring at them. I stared at them and thought that they must have thought I was a tacky poor person, because I’d worn a pretty dress. I was torn between being ashamed of my obvious poor upbringing and very relieved that I’d grown up poor enough to wear pretty clothing in public. I stared at their ugly, old dresses and wondered where on Earth they’d bought them. It totally boggled my mind. I’m not kidding.

But then we left, and the short ribs eclipsed all my thoughts. And they stay in my mind now, and in my heart. (Not just in my arteries, you know.)

The Lucky Shopping Day

The other day I had the day off, because my job is awesome enough to give us random prizes each month, and I won the prize and I chose a day off from amongst the prizes. So I was taking that day off the other day, and, of course, that meant I had to go to my favorite thrift store for several hours.

Sometimes, when I shop for clothes, I notice there seems to be a certain color motif happening in my selections. That day, at the thrift store, I was working a Calvin Klein-esque neutral pallette. I found a million, billion skirts, pants, and shorts in beautiful taupes, muted browns, and creamy stones.

Then, magically, every single thing I tried on fit perfectly. It was only a matter, then, of picking my very favorite skirts, shorts, and pants. So I did.

Then, I found these shoes, in my size, in almost perfectly new condition, for five dollars and forty-five cents.

Then, to top it all off, I decided to scope out the men’s jeans. I scanned the racks for my oldest son’s size, and came away with one pair of Guess jeans and one pair of Lucky jeans, for ten dollars each. I’m not even kidding. And my son isn’t a label whore, and neither am I (relatively, I’m not), but I couldn’t pass that up. Who would have?

I left the thrift store and went to Starbucks to get a latte. While they were making my drink, someone accidentally made an extra shot, and they offered it to me for free. Yay, I said, as they poured it into my venti iced skinny hazelnut extra special double special drink thing. Yay!

Then I went to Payless shoes, just for the hell of it. Because my friend Brie always wears awesome shoes, and when I ask her where she got them, one out of ten times she’ll say, “Payless,” and I’ll say, “Dude, you don’t have to lie. If you want to keep your shoe sources a secret, just say so.”

But she claims she’s telling the truth. So I went in there to find out for sure, and I got two awesome, awesome pairs of shoes with the buy-one-get-one sale working for me. (One of them being the same pair I saw Brie wearing. Sorry, Brie! I bit your flavor. But it’s okay because my feet are way bigger than hers, so they don’t look the same on me.)

Then, because I was on a roll, I went to Big Lots and scored another beach umbrella, which we sorely needed, for eight freaking dollars.

Then, I went to Old Navy and, miraculously, they had more than one cute thing in sizes that fit me. (Granted, they were all different sizes, probably because they were each made in a separate third-world country. But still.)

And, I forgot to say, they had a brand new Benetton suit at the thrift store, and its price was $13. It wasn’t in my size — it was like size 2 or 0, but it was there, and it was $13, and I touched it and marveled at it and gasped in awe. Just wanted to tell y’all that. Just thought you should know.

And then I went home and felt happy.

The End

post script

I searched for preserved lemons online and found this woman’s blog and immediately loved it. I don’t like to cook, but this woman fills my head with ideas. I’m going to show her ideas to my boyfriend and let him cook the things she says.

Toby spent the night in my oldest son’s room. Starbuck spent the night in the living room, instead of on my bed like she normally does. Was she guarding the whole house from Toby? I don’t know. After I woke up, she went into my room, I guess. Moments later, Toby bounded in to say good morning. I petted him. Then I heard this ominous, “Er-r-r-r-r… ERR-R-R-R!” from under the bed. “Starbuck! Be nice!” I yelled.

Poor Toby, after apparently holding it all night, finally went to the bathroom… in one of our houseplants. “No-o-o!” I cried, scaring him across the house. But then he let me carry him back into the hall and show him the real litter box. I’d shown it to him yesterday, but neglected to scratch his paws in it, like you’re supposed to. So I did his paws, and he made this face like, “Oh. That’s why you showed me this box yesterday. Okay.”

Poor thing.

I hope that, once the house is emptied of humans, Starbuck will get bored enough to be a good hostess. Maybe she’ll give Toby a tour and let him share a seat next to her at the Bastard-Squirrel-Watching Window.

Avon: What’s up with it?

At my work, in the room called Ladies, there’s a new Avon catalog with something weird on the back. It says, “Rich, creamy goodness! Moisturizing body yogurt!” And it shows pastel, fruit-scented lotions in yogurt-carton-like containers, with a spoon dipping into one of them.

Isn’t that kind of disgusting? Body yogurt? Not only does it sound like smearing food on your body, which is a practice best left to seventies porn, in my opinion, but it also carries the vague connotation of… I don’t know. A cure for yeast infections or something? Okay, I’m sorry I said that. But I had to. It was there, in the back of my mind. I’m just not turned on to the body yogurt idea.

Plus, the ad copy: “Rich, creamy goodness.” Doesn’t that sound like early 2000s blogspeak? Like a phrase a blogger would use facetiously, on a blog called something like, “A Blog of One’s Own” or “Randomized Thoughts,” to describe Josh Hartnett in a shirtless scene?

You’ll be glad to know that I finally found a pair of brown boots.

And I got them on outrageous discount, 65% off. I want to wear them every day. I’m wearing them today, in fact, with a dress they probably don’t go with. They look sort of like galoshes with this dress. But I don’t care.

Here they are. They look just like that, but darker. That picture is way bright/reddish on my monitor, for some reason.

And, normally I wouldn’t link to something I bought in that way, but I really wanted you to see the boots, because I’ve been talking about looking for brown boots on this blog for, what? Nine thousand years now? And I know y’all have probably been worried about it. It’s probably kept y’all up at night, your concern regarding my boot search… So I just wanted you to know you can lay the matter to rest now.

rich people annoyingness

There are certain web sites in this world on which the commenters annoy me with their snobbery. It’s usually on sites about fashion or New York that a certain breed of blogsnob will show up and hate on people who buy cheap clothing. They’ll be like, “Oh my god, I wouldn’t be caught dead in Old Navy. People who shop at Kohl’s should kill themselves. I use Banana Republic silk blouses to wipe my nose. I can’t touch, share oxygen with, or live in the bourrough of anyone who browses the Barney’s clearance racks.”

And I always think, “Yeah, right.” Who are these people, who brag about their wealth and discriminating taste anonymously, in someone else’s blog comments? Who are they supposed to be fooling? Who would care, besides the other faux rich people commenting anonymously?

Then again, maybe they aren’t fake. Unfortunately, I’ve met some rich people in real life who really do believe that either:
a) they’re smart for being rich and everyone else is stupid for not being rich, or
b) they’re better than everyone else, as evidenced by the fact that they were born rich.

Maybe people who were born rich are better than everyone else (or at least they were, in a past life). But I don’t think so. And I’m not just saying that because I was born poor.

Some people think that we’re all the same — that no one is better than anyone else. I don’t believe that, either.

I think that being a good person (good person, better person, best person) is based on your behavior. We can’t all be born rich, smart, or attractive, but most of us can make the choice to be good — to treat others as we’d like to be treated — or to be assholes. And that’s the basis on which I set a person’s value, in my mind.

All that sounds super elementary and not worth discussing, I know. But I swear to gosh, I really do talk to people on a daily basis who believe that being born with money makes someone a more valuable person. Or that pretty people are more valuable. Or that smart people are. To each their own, I guess. But I hate it when people apply that value system to me. I hate it when someone quite obviously decides that I’m good enough to talk to because they find me attractive enough, or because I’ve published a book, or because I’ve pulled myself up by the bootstraps. Don’t talk to me if that’s why you’re talking to me. Don’t talk to me if you’re an asshole.

(I know some of y’all reading this blog are rich, and some of you are Republicans, and that it sometimes seems like I hate rich people and Republicans. I know this because y’all write to me and say, “I know you hate rich Republicans, but I am one and I still like your blog.” I don’t hate rich people or Republicans! I know a lot of decent people of both persuasions, and I wouldn’t judge y’all on that, alone. )

And that ends my rant for today. Come back next time for another petty, judgmental, evil rant.

overtraining

A while back, I was on this here blog pretending that I might take up jogging, and my e-buddy Mike gave me some advice. He said, “Don’t overtrain.” And he cited an example of his own overzealous exercise and self-injury.

I thought of Mike the other day when I was trying to break through my weight-loss plateau. I’d already walked a couple of miles that day and done a half-hour routine with Gilad. And I was so annoyed at not having lost any more weight, I decided to do some cardio an hour before bed.

And I pulled a muscle in my lower back, and Mike’s words floated above my head like the Ghost of Overzealous Workouts Past.

And now my back hurts, and I can hardly exercise at all. And I’ve only lost 2 lbs this month, when I should have lost 5. And now I just have to eat less, I guess, if I want to meet my goal, which is to lose 20 pounds total by May 1.

If I can’t meet that goal, I won’t hate myself or anything. But it will be a little disappointing, and it’ll set back my plans and my time table for deciding on a Halloween costume. And etc.

But, if all that turns out to be the least of my problems, then I’ll be doing pretty well and I’ll be relieved.

1. Write a bunch of stuff.

I have so much stuff to write, I feel guilty sitting here writing this blog entry. I have so much stuff I’m contractually obliged to write this year, I’m probably going to use up all my vacation time and floating holiday writing it. And having so much stuff to write? Is a good thing. Don’t think I’m forgetting that.

2. Make a bunch of money. Or, if that’s not possible, save a bunch of money.

I’m not going to say anything bitter about the fact that all the money I would have made this year is already allotted to making up for lost child support. I mean, I already made a lot of money for the year, but it wasn’t enough. Bad Luck seems to follow me around, watching my mailbox for checks.

Then again — better to have bad luck when you have the checks than when you don’t, right? Right. In the mean time, I am in the midst of a budgetary resolution to never eat out again. As you might imagine, it’s making me sad.
O O
___

3. Lose 20 more pounds. (WARNING: Boring weight talk to follow.)

Science has left me upon a plateau. Now that I’ve lost 35 pounds through the magic of physics, I can no longer lose weight at the same rate (2 lbs per week) unless I subsist on 1100 calories per day. Which is 100 fewer than the recommended allowance for anyone, fat or thin. And about 300 fewer than a hypoglycemic chick who really loves to eat would recommend for herself.

Subsisting on 1100 calories a day would be doable if I ate 1400 per day, then burned off 300 of that with exercise. Burning off 300 would take about an hour and a half. Maybe less if I did it via DDR. (“Difficult” level = hardcore cardio.) And all that would be incredibly plausible if I didn’t spend most of my day sitting, either at a desk or in my car. I spend about 11 hours a day sitting down, if you include my long-ass commute. Sad, huh?

I’m trying to eat as few calories as I can stand, and burn as many calories as I can squeeze into my sedentary day. But I might have to resign myself to losing the weight more slowly than 2 lbs per week. My goal is to lose five pounds a month, totalling 20 pounds by May 1. Guess how much weight I’ve lost so far!

Half a pound. Bleh.

If I do meet this goal, I might give myself two or three months to rest, then lose 20 more. Why not? That would make me only 10 pounds overweight, by Dept of Health standards, and yet thinner than I’ve been since I was 18 years old. (Current goal would make me thinner than I’ve been since 19 years old. Freshman Fifty much? ) (<-- That emoticon has a double chin.) 4. Try not to equate money or career success with happiness.

Despite resolutions numbers 1 and 2. No, seriously. I mean, I want to write more and make more money, but without letting my happiness depend on those goals. Should be easy! Right? Right??

5. Work on that whole self-promotion… bleh

Promote myself as an author without feeling like a show-off or a sell-out. Yeah. I remember. I’m gonna do that. Okay.

6. Do more art.

That goes with being happy.

And that’s it. Okay. Aren’t you glad you asked? What? You didn’t ask? Oh. Well… Don’t read this entry, then.

Doh. Too late! Too bad for you.

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.

My middle son is going to live with his father for a semester.

I’m sad about it. But it’s not about me. It’s about him, trying something new and hoping for certain improvements in his life. So I support his choice, like any parent would.

It’s apparently a more common occurence than I’d previously thought — kids wanting to try living with the other parent; courts allowing siblings to live apart. It’s all been arranged better than I could have hoped, and all three brothers will still spend most weekends together, happily.

And that’s it on this topic for now. Even if I felt like saying more about this, I wouldn’t because I’ve agreed not to. In advance, I’d like to thank anyone who wishes to express concern. And I’ll ask that they instead just send my son good vibes. Thanks.

Good News

We also got some good news recently, concerning my writing.

Annoyingly, I can’t disclose the details of that, either. Yet. Sorry! I just wanted to tell y’all there was good news, too, so the more sensitive among you wouldn’t worry too much.

(This is me keeping my chin up. I’m like a British soldier in a Vonnegut novel, that way. Keep your chin up, keep your dignity intact, keep your stoicism fresh, etc.)

something different on which to conclude

I found a really exciting magazine. It’s called Shop Smart. I’d seen it before, but assumed it was a knock-off of Lucky. Then, the other day, its cover caught my eye, and I flipped through and realized it was actually Consumer Reports, but for smaller things.

Are you like me, in that you’ve always loved the idea of Consumer Reports, but don’t buy enough cars, trucks, washing machine, or bagless vacuum cleaners to make a subscription worth it? If so, I’m thinking they made Shop Smart for us. This month’s issue rates hot cocoa mix. (Nestle’s got hated on.) It calls out department store “sale” prices, comparing them to MSRPs. (Sears got burned.) It shows you which Barbies are worth money and gives you tips on decorating for the holidays. In short, it’s awesome, and it’s all I can do not to call in sick so I can read it cover to cover instead of going to work.

1. To fit into better clothing.

2. To wear a certain Halloween costume that you didn’t feel comfortable wearing before.

3. To participate in activities you were physically unable to do before.

4. To improve your health.
I know we’re not supposed to say that fat people are less healthy, but I have to tell y’all that my hypoglycemia has improved dramatically since I’ve lost a little weight.

5. To look sexier.
Cheekbones, high waist-to-hip ratio. Human biology says these are sexy.

6. To be able to try new… um… yoga positions.

7. To get more clothing on sale.
Smaller clothes always seem to go on sale more often. To be able to find better stuff at thrift stores.

8. To go up the parking garage stairs without breathing all hard and making your lunch dates worry that you’re going to have a heart attack.

Reasons to Lose Weight that May End in Heartbreak

1. So that people will love you.

2. So that people will treat you better.

3. For revenge.

4. So that your life will go from miserable to awesome.

Thrift Store Shopping

I don’t mind telling y’all that I’m kind of broke right now. This mortgage and all the expenses that houses incur are kind of killing me. But it’s all right — I have a house. I have equity.

So, in the meantime, I’ve been losing some weight, right? Remember I told y’all that? And, I’m glad to be losing it, but at the same time, I can’t afford to buy new pants as fast as I’ve been needing them.

Enter: Thrift store shopping.

I have tons of fluctuating issues with thrift store shopping. Sometimes I think it’s cool, and fun, and good for the environment. I know lots of people who shop exclusively at thrift stores, and they find really awesome clothes to wear, and I admire them for it. I like vintage clothing, in general. I like the idea of wearing something creative, and something you won’t find at every single mall on earth.

But then, sometimes, it gives me PTSD over growing up poor. The smell of the Goodwill will depress me, I mean, and I’ll have to turn around and leave.

Other times — times when I’m fatter — I hate thrift store shopping because, apparently, fat people never give good clothes away. I don’t blame them. When you’re fat, it’s hard enough to find good-looking clothes. Why would you give your good stuff away without knowing if you’d be able to replace it? No, fat people have to hold on to their good stuff. I know, because I’ve been fat. More than once.

I’m still pretty fat, but less fat than I was before. Less fat than the pants in my closet, in fact. So, over the weekend, my boyfriend and my youngest son and I went thrift-store shopping. And, oh my god, I am going to shop at thrift stores for the rest of my life, y’all. I mean, at least for as long as I’m less-fat and I have a mortgage I can barely afford.

We went to this one by my house — one of those gigantic ones with a name like Value Village or Thrift Town or Used Universe or whatever. One of those ones where all the aisles are organized by color, and all the signs are in Spanish, then English, and the staff who sets the prices has NO IDEA what’s valuable and what’s not.

I mean, granted, what’s valuable to me doesn’t have to be what’s valuable to them. It’s good when everyone likes different stuff, right? But still — it doesn’t cease to amaze me how you can go into a thrift store and buy either a polyester jewel-toned skirt suit with big gold buttons for $11.97, or else a wool sweater for $1.93.

Luckily, this thrift store didn’t have Depressing Smell. It just had the normal, slightly musty thrift-store smell that fades from your nostrils within a few moments.

I found two sweaters, one top, one skirt, a pair of work pants, and two pairs of jeans, for $30! Dude! And they were nice, too. Some of the stuff even seemed new. I’ve noticed, lately, that the Goodwill carries new clearance merchandise from Target, Mervyn’s, and Wal-Mart. So maybe this Value Thrift World store does, too.

One of the pairs of jeans was from the Gap, and it was good to know that I can wear pants from the Gap now, because I haven’t had the guts to try on Gap pants in an actual Gap store yet.

I probably would’ve bought more stuff, but I was tired of looking through the racks. You have to be in the mood for it, and we were pressed for time. My boyfriend didn’t find anything because he wasn’t in the mood. My son, however, found a $6 men’s blazer that he simply needed to own. He needed it, y’all. For formal wear. For cool weather. For the simple fact that it was six dollars and it looked good on him. Never mind that he’s only 10 years old. He needed it, so I bought it. I can’t deny him. I know how it feels, to need cool clothes like that.

So we raked it in, and I was glad we went. Just like, for the second year in a row, I was glad we went thrifting for our Halloween costumes, too. A while back, we went to a smaller local thrift store — our costume-luckiest, and my boyfriend bought a suit and a shirt to use in his costume, totalling about $9. I bought a bee-oo-tiful ladies’ full slip (the kind of thing you’d only find in the lingerie section of the thrift store, these days) for $2.32, that will, with a few yards of tulle, become my fairy costume.

I know a photographer who uses thrift store lingerie for photoshoots. I know several bloggers — including some of y’all reading this, maybe — who regular post their thrifting finds on their Flickrs. I know artists who scout thrift stores for art supplies. During the summer, I bought a bunch of Barbies from the thrift store to use in my own project. It was, like, twelve barbies for six dollars. Something ridiculous like that. Beautiful Barbies in all colors and vintages. And then a big-headed Filipino Bratz boy, for good measure, for 75 cents.

Anyway. I’m happy. I’m broke but I’m happy. You know? I’m realizing lately that it’s totally possible to be both, as long as you have people to love and a little bit of creativity.

Tell me about your thrift store finds, your reasons to get into shape or not, or whatever you want to tell me.