Is it weird that I’m starting to know all the paint counter employees at Lowe’s-es and Home Depots in a ten-mile radius? Today I got my least fave. I brought in actual paint chips (chips of paint I scraped off our peeling baseboards) and asked them to please match. This dude (the manager) calls me to look at their computer monitor while his underling stands slack-jawed and listens to this conversation:

Him: We can’t create a perfect match. It’s .56 off.

Me: Point five six? How off is that?

Him: [Very obviously refraining from rolling his eyes at my stupidity] It’s point five six. So there’s point one, point two, point three, point four, and then point five six.

(Also, he has extreme halitosis. This is how I remember I’ve had unsatisfactory dealings with him before–I remember not his face, but the smell of his breath at three feet away.)

Me: [Considering the fact that, in his mind, these fractions represent something–something he can see in his mind very clearly. And he’s the kind of person who thinks, because he can clearly see the thing that was beaten into his brain during Lowe’s Paint Manager training, I should be able to see it, too. But I can’t, because I’m stupid, and probably because I’m a woman. This is all sort of interesting to me, but not uncommon and not surprising and not worth getting into right now, so I’m not going to say “You’re just telling me numbers. I understand that point five is bigger than point one,” etc., etc.]
So… Is point five six like half a shade, or a whole shade? Is it visible to the naked eye?

Him: Oh, yeah. Are you trying to match something? People will be able to see the difference.

Me: And that’s the best you can do? You can’t make a match at all?

Him: No. UNLESS….

Me: ?

Him: Unless you want to go [waves at paint chips all around us] look at these paint chips and try to find one that matches.

Me: You’re saying you can’t match it from this sample, but if I find a paint chip that matches the sample, you can match that?

Him: [Obviously satisfied he’s finally gotten through to my stupid brain] Yes.

It takes me five seconds to look at the various Glidden whites and see that mine is a violet white. It takes me five more seconds to decide between the closest two violet whites. It takes me ten seconds to walk around with a bit of the sample on top of the paint chip, checking it in various lights afforded by Lowe’s and imagining the paint chip in semi-gloss form. I like doing this. I love colors and paint chips and matching and imagining. I think about the guy who worked at the Home Depot near my old house, who is the only person I’ve ever met who’s more obsessed with paint colors than me. He seemed like he had Asperger’s, the one time I worked with him. I couldn’t tell if he got pleasure from deciding on colors or not. But I had the impression he respected me. I wonder how he’s doing. I miss him.

I take my selected paint chip (“Pegasus”) to the counter and Halitosis Point Five says, “Did you find one?” in a supercilious tone that indicates he knows I picked the wrong color. It occurs to me that it’s probably a liability issue for him. He doesn’t want to make me a color and have me come back later, bitching and wanting to return the custom-made and therefore un-name-able and therefore probably un-re-sell-able paint. Maybe that’s happened to him a few times in the past and he’s learned it’s easier to force the customer to pick a paint chip. He’s probably not a bad person. He has no way of knowing I’m not a bad person, who would ask for custom paint and then return it and try to get him in trouble. I guess I can’t blame him.

As I’m waiting for my quart of semi-gloss Pegasus, another customer walks up and asks the Paint Underling, “If I bring in a paint chip, can y’all match it?”

She says, “Uh huh. We can match anything.”

I refrain from commenting. I focus on the poster board this paint department has prepared with handwritten labels. It’s the four exact colors of the Texans’ logo. (Or is it? Within how many tenths of a mystery unit are these reds and blue a match?)

I receive my paint can and walk to the cash registers, happy I had an excuse to look at paint chips today.

Duality of Dog Ownership

I am either the best dog owner, because I walk my dog three times a day, or I’m the worst dog owner, because I can’t train him to go to the bathroom in our backyard, and I yell at him about it.

I’m either a responsible dog owner, because I carefully monitor my dog during our walks, baggie in pocket, to ensure he only pees/poops on mailbox stems and plants no one would touch with their hands… or I’m an abusive dog owner, because when my tiny but wiry and willful terrier pulls very hard on his leash, I sometimes tug the leash hard enough to yank him off balance, making him flip in the grass. And then I sigh angrily and move on (now that I know for certain the flipping in the grass doesn’t hurt him). (Because it’s happened often enough, horribly.)

Likewise, I worry about him running, half blind and half deaf, into the street and getting hit by a car. I worry about it so much, it makes me angry when he tries to do so, and I spank him. And he can tell, the few times he still tries to dart into the street, that I’m about to spank him for it, and he throws himself on the ground and makes a sad, abused, beseeching face that shows me what a monster I am. And I feel ashamed of it. But I spank him, usually, anyway.

I know a lot of people who think pets are like children. Once you get a pet, they say, you’ve made a commitment for life. Only evil, horrible assholes get tired of pets or give pets away or euthanize pets for biting their children.

I know a lot of people (who came here from other countries, usually) who believe animals are either food or employees/slaves. It’s almost immoral and certainly ridiculous to keep animals in one’s home for the purpose of decoration or affection, buying them food and getting nothing useful in return.

Between these two perspectives, I have a reasonably clear (?) vision of myself as a middle-class American woman who’s lucky enough to have time and money for indoor, full-time, named/registered/immunized pets. I’m very lucky to have the luxury, emotionally, to angst over my relationship with these pets and their emotions. “If that’s the worst thing you have to worry about…” my dad would say.

I grew up making pets out of strays and feeding them table scraps. Watching them give birth to litters on piles of dirty clothing in my closet.

I’ve lived in houses whose owners didn’t allow animals inside, from whose back doors I’d venture, out into fields, with bones in my hands, to buy a little wordless companionship.

I’m a good person because I sleep with my dog curled against me all night.

I’m a bad person because I typed a blog entry trying to excuse my sins. Used my writing skills not to make money, but to persuade you certain parts of me outweigh the others.
…
…
…

This new compulsion started when I joined Amazon Prime on a trial basis last year, for xmas shipping. I stayed enrolled and let them bill my credit card because friends were raving about the service. Even though I’m not much for online shopping and couldn’t find many things on Amazon that: 1) I needed to buy, 2) that made sense to buy online, and 3) were priced competitively.

But recently I realized what the service actually is: an instant gratification machine. I blame a coworker: Every time we hold a “virtual meeting,” she constantly searches Amazon Prime for whatever we’re talking about and then sends me links. (Kinda like “There’s an app for that!”) She influenced me to order washable post-workout car seat covers while we were talking about hot yoga, and I don’t even do hot yoga. (But I did start doing regular yoga since that purchase, so… That’s good, right?)

The other day I was at a Big Box Retailer and my husband texted “See if they have those bamboo plate holders.” They did not. But I went home and saw that Amazon Prime did. Click–ordered.

Also at Big Box, I saw a child’s toy that I liked, so I bought it for myself. (I deserve the occassional cute plastic horse because I work hard, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it!) The brick-and-mortar environment killer only had one such toy left, but Amazon Prime had all of them, so I ordered my faves and I’m getting them TOMORROW.

It’s kind of terrible. I feel kind of bad about starting this shopping-based habit, just when I’d gotten my compulsive shopping habit under control. (Hours of therapy talking about that unpurchased plastic horse = success!) But not really. I don’t really feel bad about it yet.

Lately I’m starting to believe that all anger and all violence is rooted in hurt feelings and fear. And I’m on a continual quest to control my temper. (My temper is roughly 400% better than it used to be, but there’s still room for improvement.) So this means my latest and greatest technique for temper-tempering is stopping to examine why I’m angry, and if the reason is another, underlying emotion (like fear or hurt feelings), then I force myself to admit that and express it in a reasonable way.

That’s not easy. And you know what’s even less easy? Seeing someone else act like an angry jerk and then trying to figure out if they’re hurt or scared and then forcing myself to have compassion for that person and to find a way to deal with him/her without resorting to reciprocal anger. That’s so difficult that I hardly ever get it right. But I keep trying.

It’s like a detective show. It’s like a puzzle. Only some things in this world make me feel angry. So which ones are they, and why? No, honestly. What is the real reason why? And how can I use that to relate to others and to quit being such a bitch all the time?

I’m working on that. That’s my hobby now. That, and the knitting.

different kinds of crafty

I recently went to all the libraries near me and checked out every knitting book they had. In one of the Stitch ‘n Bitch books, author Debbie Stoller lays out the four types of knitters, with equal fun-poking and discussion of the pros and cons of each. The first type was knitters who are really into the technical aspect of knitting and choose to make things that are challenging and show off their skillz. Okay, got it.

The second type was dubbed “She’s Gotta Have It” knitters, and they’re the ones who see something they want to wear/own and then figure out how to knit it. And that, for the most part, is me. Even though I’m a noob, I know I’m that kind of knitter because I’m that kind of seamstress, crocheter and beader, too. Debbie went on to say that those types rarely learn skills outside of their comfort zone, which made me bristle for about three seconds before I realized that I didn’t mind that being true, as long as I knew enough knitting to knit what I like.

Then there were two other kinds of knitters that I can’t remember. Sorry. But it’s there in her book, if you want to go read it for yourself.

Anyhow. This categorization of crafters made the wheels in my mind turn. Yes, the number-one consideration for me is how the finished piece looks, and whether I want to wear it or see it being worn by someone else. Of course it is. But could there really be other kinds of knitters on Earth? And, if so, would I be able to identify them in the future?

So then, the other day, I was skimming through the forums on Ravelry.com and saw peeps talking about Vogue Knitting magazine. That interested me because Vogue Knitting is a big part of why I learned to knit. Every season of my adult life, I’ve browsed through that mag at the racks and wished that I could knit. So it was with extreme rapture that, after taking the knitting lessons last month, I was finally able to justify my very own subscription to Vogue Knitting, whose Fall ’09 issue was so beautiful, it made me sick. Every orange sweater in it, I wanted. And now I can have them. NOW I CAN KNIT THEM!!!!!1!!!1!!!! I HAVE THE POWER!! JUST LIKE HE-MAN DID, WHEN HE HAD THAT SWORD FROM CASTLE GREYSKULL!! EXCEPT THAT I DON’T THINK HE DID CRAFTS – HE JUST KILLED PEOPLE OR WHATEVER!!

So I’m on Ravelry, and they’re talking about the Vogue, and some of them are hating on it. They’re like “Oh, the sweaters are weird” and “The models are posed so weirdly” and “They’re all skinny and I’m not! Eff Vogue!”

And I became confused. Because, one, how could people not see that Vogue Knitting is the perfect blend of crafty magazine and fashion magazine?? Of course the models are going to be skinny and bent at weird angles. But the sweaters aren’t weird, they’re beautiful. They’re fashionable.

Second: Are we not knitters? We are Devo! (In this sentence, Devo means crafty.) Hence, we can take the Vogue sweater patterns and make them whatever size we want. Can’t we? Hope so, because I’m wearing at least one orange Vogue sweater this winter, y’all, even if I have to do quantum physics on the pattern, first.

Then, after all that thoughtage, I realized that people who dislike Vogue might be those other kind of knitters – the first kind Deb Stoller talked about. The kind who really, really like the process of knitting and don’t see it as a means to an end.

And, for those people, there is Interweave knitting magazine.

Right? Am I right? I mean, I like Interweave, too, but I can see that it’s a little hardcore for me. But, at the same time, I love and respect the people who like that magazine better, and all the other kinds of knitters. Because we’re all sisters here, aren’t we? (Yes. Guys, too.) We’re all fellow witches in the coven of craft.

And right now I’m having a flashback to the mid-‘90s, when I used to read the sewing newsgroups on Usenet and be amazed at the vicious arguments that broke out there, among crafters, on a forum that was meant to unite us. Good times, good times, as they say.

the sister-witch site in the coven of me

I finally got my Official Author Site, gwendolynzepeda.com, redesigned. If you look at it right after I’ve posted this entry, you’ll see that it needs a content update, too. But still, it’s kind of new and kind of fresh, and I feel like we should celebrate. So, pretty soon, I’m gonna have some sort of contest and give away an ARC (Advance Reading Copy) of my novel that’s coming out in January. To one of y’all, for free, with free shipping. Signed, too, maybe.

I just have to think up a tortuous, narcissistic contest quiz, first. (One that will probably be easily winnable using Google, though.) That’ll be next entry. Also next entry, I’ll tell y’all my favorite easy summer recipes, most of which involve liquor and/or Mexican chili powder.

Take care until then.

Love,
Gwen

because I have been inspired.

Now, all I have to do is think of 25 new things to tell y’all, apart from the stuff divulged in the 100 things meme I did back in 2005, and apart from all the other stuff I’ve told y’all over the past 12 years.

Easy!

1. I’m going to do a reading/event tonight in which I’m supposed to talk about my creative process(es). For that, I’ve decided to give a 5-minute history of my writing career. It’s my first time doing anything like that, so I’m kind of nervous. But I’m always kind of nervous about all the events I do, no matter how new or old the material. Unless they’re readings for little kids, that is.

2. I feel that the best Easter candy is Russel Stover’s creme eggs, in coconut-in-dark-chocolate flavor.

3. I like to go to the grocery store with my fiance. That’s, like, a serious date night activity for us. Sometimes I think it’s because we both experienced hard times in our youth. But usually I don’t try to analyze it.

4. I’m getting married on May 23rd. (THIS NEXT PART IS SECRET – SHH:) At first I was a little bit sad because my future in-laws didn’t think I was the right person to marry their son. Not sad enough to let it stop us, or to dwell on it on a daily basis, but kind of disappointed. But, recently, my fiance talked to them about it, and they voiced their concerns… and now they’re coming to the wedding. And I’m happier/more relieved about that than I would have expected.

5. I’m actually a really good daughter-in-law. No one here knows that, because last time I served in that capacity, it was in a tiny town that no one cared to visit. And then I left my husband, effectively removing the possibility of further communication with my parents-in-law. But I know that they loved me, because they told me so, more than once. And I loved them. And I spent jillions of hours with them, and I did what I could to make their lives easier. And I enjoyed doing so, because that’s just the kind of crazy I am. And, I have to say here that my ex-mother-in-law was way, way, WAY more opposed to that marriage (and more vocal about it) than my current future in-laws have been. So, in general, I’m optimistic about the new in-law relationships I’m starting. I can rebuild them. I have the technology. I am… the $6 Million Daughter-in-Law. I’ve just been waiting for the paperwork to go through so I can begin.

6. I didn’t realize, until recently, how much I missed being a daughter-in-law.

7. If it were up to me, and no one’s judgment had any effect on my life, I’d cut my hair short and never wear makeup. It is up to me, I know, but I live in this world. In this world, prettiness can be a kind of armor. So I put on eyeliner every morning, just like a knight of old.

8. I turned 37 in December. A while back, something made me think that I was “almost in my forties.” So, since then, I keep thinking that. “I’m almost in my forties — I don’t have to deal with that.” “I’m practically 40 — I should know better.” “I’m in my forties now — shouldn’t I be doing [x] by now?” So now, in my mind, I’m in my mid-40s. I completely, mentally bypassed the last three years of my 30s. Weirdest part: I don’t mind. I like being in my 40s. It’s giving me an excuse to break old habits and try new things.

9. My favorite thing I’ve ever written is what I believe the fewest people have read: the very last story in my very first book. Every time I think about that, I imagine musicians I admire whose own favorite songs probably don’t match up with my favorites. And I have no sympathy for them, because I wouldn’t change my favorite Pavement songs, even if Stephen Malkmus hated those ones the most. And then, in turn, I have no sympathy for myself. So what if I like the ant story best? That doesn’t mean it’s the best one or the one that resonates with anyone else.

10. Sometimes I worry about Norm MacDonald. I was watching SNL, live, the night he accidentally said fuck and then immediately realized he’d get fired for it. He was fired. Then, after that, his career did a long, slow slide. I saw him on the Comedy Central Bob Saget roast, and he still looked sad, but you could also tell that his colleagues loved him. They joked about his gambling addiction. That made me worry about him more than before. I don’t know why I worry about him, in particular. But that happens to a lot of people, right? You feel some weird connection/intuition for a certain celebrity or stranger, and you carry them around in your mind, right? Like a lot of people worry about Jennifer Anniston, or like Ben Folds worried about Muhammad Ali. I worry about Norm MacDonald. I hope that he’s okay.

11. I fantasize about speaking every language.

12. I fantasize about having the psychic power to answer any question truthfully, and charging people (anyone) $500 a pop to answer their questions. Scientists’ questions would be answered during weekly press conferences, though.

13. I fantasize… not about having the power to heal people, but about having the power to prescribe the perfect diets for them. I mean the diets that would make them healthy and happy.

14. I fantasize about having the power to perform telekinetic, painless, instant platic surgery on people. Because, you know how you’ll see someone, and they’re obviously self-conscious about some aspect of their appearance? Like a mole or their teeth or something? Well, I fantasize about having the power to fix that for people, without them even knowing it’s being done.

15. All those fantasies mean that I’m a narcissist. Every time I take the personality disorder profile quiz thing, it says I’m mostly a narcissist. Which kind of annoys me, because I don’t believe that I am. But then, people I admire score high on narcissism, too, so at least I’m in good company. Second-highest scoring for me is OCD. So what? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Unless you’re a clean-freak OCD’er, like our friend Cathy, because then it’s just too much stress. (I like to converse with Cathy about various compulsions, but then I feel bad for her when she stresses about the cleanliness and germs.)

16. The score I don’t get, and the personality disorder for which I have the lowest tolerance? Is histrionic-ness.
That means “attention whores.” I especially hate being around attention whores who are boring — that’s the absolute worst. Second worst is catty attention whores who, for some reason, believe that I have something they want. Then they start trying to compete, and I never want to engage in that. I just want to get away. Actually… I’ve had histrionic friends, but they have to be interesting, and they have to have different taste in men, so that there’s no competitiveness. In that case, I’m okay with them.

17. Really, this isn’t 25 Random Things About Me. It’s 25 Things That Have Been on My Mind a LOT Lately, Because I’m Slightly OCD and Think About the Same Topics Over and Over Until I’m Sick of Them. Thank you for reading, if you’re still reading along.

18. I used to think that I’d hold my old grudges forever — you know, like “She’ll be sorry when I’m published and then I see her in public and she has to feel stupid about that time she said my writing was trite!” — but it turns out that I don’t. I work as hard as I can, and I forget about the old petty stuff because I feel like I’ve grown so far away from it. You know?

19. I worry about my kids way more than I let on. Sometimes I lie in bed at night having long, long strings of worries about them. But I choke it down because I don’t want to be like Nemo’s dad on that movie Finding Nemo. When I saw that movie, I cried super hard whenever his dad was on the screen. Because I totally empathized with that (fish) man, and I’ve never even had kids who were eaten by sharks. But, yeah, I don’t want to bum out my kids like that. So I keep that stuff to myself, as much as possible.

20. I’m proud of the way my kids have turned out, but don’t like to say that to people too often because it seems like a compliment to myself. But it’s (mostly) not — my kids are good kids. They were born good and worked to get better, independently of me or my parenting skillz.

21. Sometimes I want to post more pictures of my family online, but then I worry. Worry, worry, irrational worry….

22. I’m simultaneously excited and anxious about writing my next book.

23. I’m waiting to see if the last kids’ book I submitted will get published. Trying not to be anxious about that. The kids’ books get rejected way more often than you might imagine. Which doesn’t feel too fabulous, but it toughens me up. It’s all a business, you know. This writing stuff, I mean.

24. I feel bad/guilty/annoyed when I write an entry here and people feel compelled to reassure me about whatever I complained about. I always feel like I’m just venting/ranting/babbling, but then, if it comes off like whining or needing comfort, that bugs the crap out of me and I feel like I somehow betrayed myself. (But if it doesn’t sound like whining, but people just want to offer comfort/reassurance, anyway, then that’s okay.)

25. I don’t like to need anyone. I like to be independent.

Whew. I did it!

The end.

I haven’t written here lately because I’ve been under some stress, and I never feel like talking on the blog (or to anyone) when I’m under stress. But now it’s all over, thank goshfully.

If I were in an airplane crash (God forbid; knock on wood), I already know exactly how I’d react. Cool and alert as hell, I’d put the oxygen mask on my face then put masks on everyone else. I’d pull out the floatation device seats, hand them out, calculate the distance, count it off “3, 2, 1, inhale!” and then swim everybody to safety. Then I’d go back for the more valuable plane cargo. Then I’d help with the rescue/recovery. Then I’d clearly and cogently debrief to the authorities.

Then, I’d go home, where I’m safe. Then, I’d go to the bathroom and throw up. I’d climb into bed, trembling, and cry. I’d cry for two hours, probably. Then I’d fall asleep and have a nightmare or two. Then I’d wake up and be ready to start a new day.

I’m guessing I’d do all this because that’s how I usually react in less major catastrophes. Except that I rarely throw up afterwards – it’s more like momentary nausea and retching.

Last week I finished my second novel and turned it in the night before deadline. (Extended deadline, actually, but that’s okay.) Also, last week, I had extreme Family Court drama that magically resolved itself on the same day that I turned in my novel.

And now I feel… relieved, right?

No! I feel stressed! I feel all knotted up and uptight and downtrodden. I feel crazy and unsafe. I feel scared.

I’ll probably try to cry a little bit tonight, before I go to sleep. But there’s hardly any time. I have a lot of stuff to move on to. I think I’ll just move on, instead, then. Sometimes I find that stress is the best distraction from my stress recovery.

(This is what you call Type A personality. This is what it takes for me to succeed. Don’t feel sorry for me. Be happy for me that I’m this crazy, because the sickness is what makes the dreams come true.)

shout out to Carl Jung

Do you ever have a recurring bad situation that makes you question your existence and your karma and all that? And you think “Why does this keep happening to me?” because you believe everything happens for a reason, but you can’t think of one single reason for this crappy stuff to keep happening to you over and over again?

And then, finally, you find the one silver lining in the crappy thing, or you realize the one lesson it’s taught you?

And then, the moment you have that realization, the crappy thing stops happening?

Yeah. That’s happened to me a few times. It happened just the other day, in fact. And I’m very, very relieved that the crappy stuff seems to be over.

Thanks, Carl Jung!

good weekend

I’m excited about this weekend. Here’s what I plan to do:

1. Go see that movie Milk
2. Go to the Turkish restaurant with the super fabulous dolmas that are not called dolmas in Turkish
3. Start shopping for xmas presents for my brats, since they’ll be at their dad’s house and therefore unable to see what I’m buying them
4. Go to an Indian restaurant in my neighborhood that a real live Indian person from my neighborhood said was good. (I totally, gauchely but desperately, hit up an Indian stranger during a carpool ride. I was like, “I’m sorry to be rude, but are you Indian?” He was like, “Um… yes.” I was like, “Can you please tell me if there are any good Indian restaurants in our neighborhood, because the only one I’ve found isn’t very good.” And he was like, “Oh! Yeah, sure.” And then he told me where two of them are. Thank gosh, because I was starting to have the Butter Chicken DTs and I can’t be driving all the way instead 610 for treatment all the time.)

Despite my irrational feelings of discomfort, which are probably only Seasonal Affective Dysfunction, anyway, things are pretty awesome.

Even the carpooling has been awesome, lately. I’ve been talking with a lot of nice/cool/smart people, and that restores my faith in humanity and makes me happy to be alive. The other day I met a geologist who seemed like a really decent person. Another day I met a guy who’s sort of obsessed with ballroom dancing and he told me a lot of fascinating stuff about that scene. I met a Republican precinct judge’s wife and a former Democrat activist precinct judge on the same ride, and that was a good chat.

I continually meet legal secretaries who have hilarious or shocking stories to tell. I often talk with older peeps who have insightful viewpoints on local issues. Sometimes the people are witty and we laugh, and that’s good, to laugh with strangers.

Today a transplanted Floridian and I gave a woman advice on what to buy her grandkids for Christmas, and I felt like we did some serious good. Usually, if I’m driving, I just drive in silence. Especially with men, who don’t care if you talk or not. Also, I like to concentrate super hard on my driving, so that everyone is comfortable. I’m currently obsessed with learning to brake my van as smoothly as possible, because my van has annoyingly tough brakes. Sometimes, though, I’ll get yakky with people and talk away the miles. Either way, it’s good. I don’t mind my commute anymore, now that I’m doing the HOV all the time. Even when I’m not talking to people, there’s always a lot to see out the window. I love my city, despite its flaws, so it’s good.

Some of you might consider this big news.

My boyfriend (fiancé) is moving in with us. I feel like I already told y’all that, or like most people reading this assume he lives with me, anyway. But…

(saying this next part knowing, and knowing that you know, and knowing that you know that I know, that plans like this are likely to change and shift and grow)

we’re thinking about eloping now. Or just going to the courthouse or whatever.

See, we’ve never been as worried about the wedding as we were about the marriage, and particularly about the physical love nest. So we set a long engagement, and kind of set the timeline around the housing market. Because we didn’t feel we could be married until we’d secured a house in a certain area. And that’s not feasible until at least two years from now. So, while we were in deep talks about that, people around us were asking about the wedding. And we’d be like, “Um… two years from now… string quartet, samba band, and DJ.”

But now, the stars have aligned such that it makes more sense for us to live together in my house. And, now that that’s happening, we’re like, “Wait, why do we need a wedding, again?”

It’s kind of like: living together was the final step, so why do we need an expensive middle step? You know?

It’s kind of like: why spend on a wedding, money that would be better spent on, say, a trip to Europe? Where we could hire an Italian homeless person to pose as a priest for a few photos to send back home? You know?

So, that’s where it’s at right now. In case anyone’s interested in that aspect of this eleven-year-long narrative. Plans subject to change, of course. Subject to Pricing, Funds, and Comp. Everything on Earth is subject to change, right? Even rocks, albeit very slowly.

soon

(Every time I write “soon” for a subtitle, I think of the My Bloody Valentine song of the same name. Do you?)

Pretty soon, I’m going to announce dates/times/locations for readings for my novel, Houston, We Have a Problema, which is coming out January 9th.

I’ll go ahead and tell y’all right now that there aren’t going to be many physical readings. I feel guilty about this, because every time someone’s asked me in the past, I’ve been all glib, “East Chickenfoot, Arkansas? Yeah, sure, I’ll do a reading there in January or February.” But it’s not actually like that. My publicist peeps have done the math, and they think online and media efforts sell more books than physical readings around the country.

So… if you’re a book blogger or media peep who wants to review my book or interview me or otherwise be involved in some way when this book comes out, now is the time to tell me, so I can put you on the list or put you on the calendar. Actually, tell me also if you’re hosting any literary events or own a bookstore and would like to have me visit. I’m not supposed to invest a lot of time/energy/$ in readings out of state, but I am going to do a few, even if it’s only for the excuse to travel around a little and write it off on my taxes.

So, yeah. Contact me now. Our operators are waiting to take your call. Buy my product. Get a giant one for her pleasure and doesn’t leave you. All systems go. See you soon. And thanks.

Love,
Your blogger/author,
Gwen

Sheila: I’m about to go look at your buffalo head princess
me: yay!!!!!
Sheila: but you should call me and tell me about the australians. that bewildered me
me: ok.
but I have to do DDR first for 40 min, bc I ate pizza. okay? i call you around 9, from my bed.
hurry and look at buck rogers and the princess
Sheila: lol i see it. im completely lost
me: in love with her, you mean?
and her futuristic stripper dancing?
Sheila: hes ridiculous
me: i know!
his stupid face!
PS, my dad dances like that when he’s super drunk.
Sheila: its called gettin down
me: or used to
gettin dow-w-w-wn
that’s woman’s body isn’t even that good, and yet i love her
Sheila: oh my god
im watching again
me: then you have to go to youtube and see all the parodies of it
and then drunken batman dancing
Sheila: oh my jesus
thats the most ridiculous thing ive seen, maybe ever
me: bidi bidi bidi
Sheila: booo
gy
drunken batman?
can what i just watched be embedded?
me: adam west in the ’60s. with a chick named molly
embedded: don’t know
Sheila: how do i find drunk batman
me: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1RqxHQOG7w
” a large fresh orange juice, please”

Sheila: shes hot
me: i like how Robin’s jerking off in the car
Sheila: she acts like kim cattrall
does batman special mean something sinister
me: i knew you’d like her, btw
maybe.
i thought it meant bartender stocked oj just for batman
Sheila: hhahaha what the fuck is robin doing
‘you Interest me, strangely’
oh lord
me: he’s jerking it to the sight of batman dancing, obvs
Sheila: is he showing off his satiny satiny gloves?
me: heh
i always liked him. and his gayness
i was a kindergarten fag hag
Sheila: oh my god
shes so useless
me: who? the chick?
Sheila: lmao that was the best collection of videos, ever
yeah, when he falls she starts screaming before it happens and then steps away like she’s avoiding something disgusting
hilarious body language
me: that’s how women had to be back then.
avoiding the ODs, the vomit
Sheila: cradling his satin cape in the crook of his satiny arm
jesus
i know – haha – it seems really realistic
like, AHHH! i cant believe im dancing with a drunk!
me: he’s a real satin man/ sitting in his satin land/ making satin satin satin nobody…
Sheila: lolol
oh god
i feel like i might be 10 or 11 and we’re watching this new series called batman
me: it’s almost time for me to leave you and do DDR. don’t let it hurt your feelings when that happens.
aussies: roadtripnation.com
Sheila: i will not. i have to go — ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i remember now – i have to go walk the dog
like, 10 minutes ago
me:

[hating and ranking deleted]

Sheila: why you always gotta be the mom, yo
me: because my uterus is all stretched out already
i tried to be the big sister. maybe that’s what happened, instead
Sheila: its not all you though
not to get into this again
but people just expect that of you
me: i guess
but i must radiate that vibe
Sheila: yeah
probably its you
me: i do it whenever i’m trying to be helpful
can’t help it.
learned it at my aunt’s knee
it’s okay. i’m a good mom.
Sheila: you try to make people comfortable in a certain way
me: why not share the… whatever
Sheila: thats occasionally maternal
lol milk?
me: yeah — with my boobs
and food
(milk = both. you said it.)
Sheila: lol hahahaha
awesome
me: i felt bad for [delete]
but i was like “get used to it”
LIFE IS BREAST MILK, BITCHES
Sheila: was she traumatized?
lmao god
me: maybe a little, for now
she’ll get over it with a quickness
me: IT’S ALL BODILY FLUIDS. DO NOT DIFFERENTIATE
heh
you’re right. sadness
but she’ll get over it, and ask him to go back.
sorry for all caps. i slightly manic
Sheila: me too. is ok.
isokays? wtf
me: iz oks
Sheila: you have mastered the lolcats and i have, not.
HA i knew youd know
i bought a lamp today
me: iz oks. i still wuvz u.
from?
Sheila: jesus. too much cute
me: ikea?
Sheila: from bj oldies.
no, so much hate for ikea now
now that i have world market furniture, i have no desire to walk through that nonsense
its that milk white glass
is purdy
me: ooh
Sheila: thats my breaking news. everything else from today has been very boring, but the lamp is nice.
me: heh
plus your boobs look good lately. don’t forget that.
Sheila: oh yeah? oh, in that shirt
me: and the pool photo
u can haz weihgt gainz?
Sheila: lol haha, well they’re floating in both those circumstances
i can haz?
yes please, thank god.
Sheila: ok im going to go walk the dog and you go do your ddr and ill talk to you later on
me: ok.
bye tater
Sheila: lolol
thats an appropriate expression of laughing for longer than a second isnt it?
me: yes
good job
Sheila: jesus. call me later. bye
me: byes

Boys first. Boys, girls don’t want to have sex with boys who:

1. have to make sure their friends approve of their sex partners, first.
2. talk about sex and violence interchangeably. (“I’ll shoot it in your eye, man!”)
3. make it obvious that, once a girl has sex with them, every aspect of it will be discussed with his friends.

Come on, boys. Grow up. (Or admit that you’d don’t really want girls to sleep with you. That’s okay, too.)

Girls! Girls, nobody likes girls who:
1. constantly use sexual behavior to get attention.
2. constantly compare themselves to other girls.
3. think that attention from males is the most important thing on earth.

Unless… we’re talking about a boy who wants to have sex. A boy who wants to have sex with a girl will put up with all of the above and more. But then, even he will get tired of it and move on to something else.

oh, shoot

I had a lot more to tell y’all, but it all just slipped out of my mind. Man.

More later, then. Don’t forget the poetry workshop on Sunday. I’m making worksheets for it this week.

Unless you’re a psycho stalker, of course. No psycho stalkers invited. Sorry, guys. Maybe next time.

reading rainbow

I just read E.M. Forster’s Maurice. Before that, I read a bunch of Henry James. Before that, I read Gregory MacGuire’s Son of a Witch. All of those were good.

Before that, I read a little bit of Etgar Karet’s Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God. Before that, I read A.M. Homes’ The Mistress’s Daughter. Before that, I read Madeleine L’Engle’s Camilla, which I thought was awesome when I was a middle-schooler but which now cracked me up with its heavyweight self-importance and which saddened me with its romanticization of domestic violence.

Before that, I read Nicholson Baker’s The Fermata, which was funny and clinically interesting.

I need more books to read. Lightweight books that fit in my purse on the bus.

That’s all now. More later.

Did you have a good New Year’s Eve? We did. My boyfriend Tad and his friends threw a party. At first, no one RSVPed on our Evite, because they all had clubs or hotel parties to attend. So we assumed it’d just be our core group of four couples, minus the couple who just had a baby. I thought we’d just drink and play cards, you know?

But a couple of people showed up. Then, as the night went on, people would call one of the hosts and ask what we were doing. And the host would say, “We’re staying home because we don’t want to mess with parking and traffic and the weather and all that shit. Come over if you want.” And, by midnight, we had a pretty sizeable group of people, many of whom I’d never met before, but all of whom were awesome. Has that ever happened to you — that you throw a party and it lines up with the planets such that every single person attending is either smart, funny, sexy, or all three? No jerks, no vomiting? That’s what happened. Everyone was awesome, even to the point that they helped us clean up. Tad went to bed at 5:30. I went to bed at 7 AM, only because the sun was coming up and the people I was hanging with in the garage had a long drive home.

It was fun. It was a good start to the new year.

Quick List of Recent Annoyances

I have to get this out of my system.

1. People who block the intersection on red lights.

2. People who look at your jacket and scarf and gloves and not only have to let you know that they aren’t bothered by the cold, but that you’re a wussy/whiner/baby for needing a jacket. Bonus annoyance: Flashing back to that 80 degree day last summer, when you were comfortable but that person was sweating profusely and whining about the heat, but you sympathized with her, because you’re not an asshole.

3. People who bring up your good news in conversation, and then call you a show-off because of it. Like, “Have you lost weight? Show off!” or “Is that a new blouse? Show off!” or “Are you a generally happy person? Show off!”

4. People who go out of their way to look cool, and who ignore you at social gatherings because you don’t look cool enough, and who pretend not to recognize you in public, even though you’ve met them more than once. Bonus annoyance: If/when those people later decide you’re cool (“You write books? I’m trying to write a book! Who’s your agent? We should have lunch!”) and suddenly act all friendly, as if their previous rudeness never occurred.

5. Networking events, because they’re completely filled with people like the ones described above, and because I don’t want to walk around with cheese and cheap wine in my hands, being judged by these people. And I don’t like bragging that I’m a writer (“Show off!”), especially not to people like that. I would rather sit home and write, or attend a party where everyone already knows I’m a writer and no longer cares, or stand up on stage and read my books to people who are there because they like my writing, and not because they think I can do something for their careers.

6. People who dislike you and go out of their way to show it in the pettiest way possible (by forwarding jokes and “inspirational” emails to everyone in the department but you, by bringing baked goods and personally informing every person in the department except you)… but then expect you to greet them in the halls and introduce them to your boyfriend and/or fiance. And make a face of disbelief when you ignore them. As if you would want to contaminate your boyfriend and/or fiance with the misery that exudes from their pores.

The planets have plans for you in 2008. Even Planet Pluto. Even Planet Chiron.

All my horoscopes, as well as the moon phase planning guide my dad gave me for Christmas, have been telling me that this is the year I will succeed… if I first examine my habits and attitudes, and get over something I’ve been reluctant to get over.

I’m thinking it’s the networking thing. Planets Pluto, Chiron, and Blitzen, in my Fifth House of Marketing, are asking that I get over my reluctance to brag and start up some serious self-promotion. (Say it: “Show off! SHOW OFF!”)

There are things I’ve wanted — writerly things — that I’ve been afraid to ask for because I don’t think I’m good enough yet. Like grants, or writer jobs, or bigger speaking fees. Because, you know, I’m never good enough, in my own mind. (If I were already good enough, I wouldn’t have to work so hard, would I? )

Meanwhile, though, I see people with far fewer credentials than me, and they’re getting the things I want. They’re like, “Hi! I’m Mindy! I’m a writer!! My friend published my poem in his zine, and I have a novel outline in a shoebox under my bed!!!” And they’re now teaching Creative Writing at Purdue. Or whatever.

And now it’s to the point where even I think it’s ridiculous. You know? I’m like, “Gwen. Come on. Seriously. What the hell are you doing? Stand up, declare yourself, and get what’s rightfully yours.”

But… I don’t want to. You know? That’s a difficult thing for me. You think I’m a narcissist, and you’re right, but I’m still insecure, and I still have deep-seated fears of people calling me a show off. What happened to the time when writers could just stay home, drinking and writing, mailing pages to their agents, and get paid? Offered jobs? Showered with appropriate amounts of recognition, no matter how hard they tried to hide?

Maybe those days never really existed. The more experience I get, the more I suspect that those myths were carefully manufactured by people who were really good at networking.

So that’s my first resolution for this year, then. Get over the last vestiges of insecurity, and move on with my life. I might regret posting all this, later today. If so, that probably means it really needed to be said.

All those long paragraphs were written in order to weed out the anti-fans

, the haters, the misery spreaders, the train-wreck seekers, the ojo givers, the bad vibe emanators.

All of those people are gone now and their negative energy has dissipated. So I can tell you: I’m engaged. Tad and I are engaged now. It happened on my birthday. I am happy.

And that’s all the news on that now. There’s no date set. Therefore, I can’t answer questions about any weddings, any babies, or any shared funeral plots. (His sister’s literal first question, upon hearing the news: “But aren’t your tubes tied?” My response, “Uh, no, they aren’t. Wait… what? the? what?”) (I love his sister, though. Love you, Susan!)

I will say this: Even though I’m a feminist and I believe that marriage is an outdated institution and that society pressures people to conform to ridiculous, meaningless traditions… etc…. I did get this little frisson of excitement when I realized that I now have every right to peruse bridal magazines.

Even though I’ve seen them before, and I think they’re boring, and I know they’re all from the perspective of a culture that’s neither Tad’s nor mine. So I don’t really even want to look at them. But I like knowing that I can, now, without worrying about what other people think.

So that’s my good news, y’all, and that’s all for this entry. Hope y’all’s 2008 is good so far. I hope your planets are all lining up.

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

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

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

Oh, well. I’m still happy about them.

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

The YouTubes and the CSSes and the BloggerWriters and the InterWebs

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend Adventure: Farmers’ Market

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

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

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

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

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

I no longer like Billy Joel’s music.

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

Here is the chorus and two verses of the song:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.