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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/cheese

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

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

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

Okay, no more stream of conscience blogging.

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

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

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

dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End.

When I Woke Up

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

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

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

I’m getting older.

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

Jesus

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

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

Halloween is over for us

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being engaged also means

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

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

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

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

Okay, that’s all.

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

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

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

We went to an HEB in the middle of nowhere the other day. (HEB is a big ol’ grocery chain in Texas.) Out in front of the store, they had crates of bagged gourds and mini pumpkins for $1.50 per bag, surrounded by desperate fruit flies. So I bought three bags of gourds. Even though it’s almost too late for harvest decorations, I bought them, figuring I could paint them silver and gold and use them for Martha Stewart-y xmas decorations.

Last night I cut open the bags and sorted through all the mixed gourds, picking out the best ones to display on the mantel. And, oh my god, I love mini gourds so much. I wanted to hug and kiss each one. They’re so cute and harvesty. And now I don’t want to paint them, because they’re so beautiful just the way they are. I want to keep them forever. I want them to be my pets.

blipping over Thanksgiving

So the kids are going to their dad’s for Thanksgiving, and we’re not even cooking turkey–we’re going to a Chinese restaurant. So, in a way, I feel like Thanksgiving doesn’t exist and therefore I’m already planning for Christmas.

And it kind of makes me sad, to skip a holiday like that. But then again, I’m so glad to have the kids for Christmas this year, I’ll gladly skip Thanksgiving in exchange for that.

vanity update

I got my hair cut, but didn’t have it all cut off, like I threatened. They layered the hell out of it, but left the back long. While Tina hacked away, I noted the clear line of demarcation between my old color and my roots. So I went home later and dyed my hair Navajo Bronze, aka “light caramel brown,” and it came out dark auburn instead, and it looks nice and I like it.

And we got a new scale, and I’ve lost 35 pounds total in the past 6 months. And my goal is to lose 20 more, and I’m giving myself 6 more months to do that. So… yeah. Wish me luck.

My boyfriend can cook like a mofo.

The other day we were ambling around the grocery store, trying to decide what to make for dinner. My boyfriend says, “How about chicken wings?” And I said, “You mean like buffalo wings? Eh.”

And he made us baked chicken wings, with salt and pepper and garlic, and DAMN they were good. My boyfriend is the master of cooking stuff with just salt, pepper, garlic, and making whatever it is taste like a $29 entree.

My night elf, she is sad.

My World of Warcraft character, Xora, has been stuck on Level 32 for the past nine months. I’m on this quest where I have to go into a haunted house and kill a bunch of zombies. Whenever I log on, no one else is playing that quest so no one can help me out. So I’ll go into the haunted house and kill a few zombies, until the biggest zombie kills me, and then I’ll spend a while bringing my character back to life, and then I get tired and log off.

I told my kids that, unless they wanted to get grounded, at least one of them was going to have to get online with me and help my character level up.

“I can just play your character for you until you’re like, Level 35,” said my youngest, who is 10.

“I don’t want someone else to play it for me!” I whined. “I want to level up by myself!“

“Fine,” said my oldest. “I’ll help you the weekend after next, if I have time.”

It’s that time of year, when the world needs new clothes.

My boyfriend Tad wanted to look at trenchcoats, even though he already owns at least two. But we finally had a cold front, and the temperature set off that trenchcoat impulse within him.

So we went to the Galleria, which is where a few rich people go to shop, and where zillions of poor people go to watch them. We went into Neiman’s and pretended we could afford it. We went to Saks 5th and pretended we were classy enough to lift our noses at the mannequins. We went to the new Barney’s and sniffed that it was nothing like the one in New York. We peered into the window of Fendi and disagreed over the spotlighted purse. (I was for, Tad was against.) We went to Club Monaco and enjoyed the music. We went to Nordstrom and left in a huff over the fact that there were no more BCBG sweater dresses in size XL. (Which was good, since I couldn’t afford one, anyway.)

Most importantly, we noted that fingerless knit gloves (solid or striped) were all the rage again, just like back in the eighties. We thought my 10-year-old son might like a pair. But the cheapest pair we found was $14 at Urban Outfitters, and that was too much.

We left the Galleria. The next day, we went to Target, where we purchased a set of two pairs of knit gloves–one black and one black and white stripes–for $1.49. We took them home and cut off the fingers with pinking shears. When my youngest son got home from Austin that night, we told him our Galleria adventures, then presented him with the knock-off gloves. He takes after us… I couldn’t tell if he was more enchanted with the trendiness of them, or with the fact that we’d recreated the trend for so cheap.

You aren’t going to know what I mean if you don’t know Houston streets, but I’m going to say this, anyway. There sure are a lot of stupid, rude people driving down Allen Parkway in the mornings lately. And in the River Oaks area, in general.

Stupid woman in the Lexus SUV with the bluebonnet license plate who lives in (or visits someone in) Allen Parkway condos: You almost killed me the other day, and you didn’t even notice.

Rude people coming west down Memorial, then going left on Shepherd: Quit running the red light, assholes. Quit running the red, then filling up the intersection on the red, then having the nerve to honk at me when I’m trying to come east down Memorial and go right on Shepherd while I have the green freaking arrow. Who do you people think you are? Do you think that, because you’re going into River Oaks, that makes you special? You’re wrong.

People going south on Shepherd, turning left on Allen Parkway: That’s a two-lane left turn. See the arrows on the signs? Stay in your lane, or don’t throw the finger at people who honk at you to keep you from wrecking.

Stupid people driving Hummers or Tahoes while texting on your phones: Stay in your lanes, or else don’t act all hurt when I honk at you for coming out of your lane and drifting toward my car.

There — I feel better having typed all that. I know it won’t keep me any safer, though. Unfortunately. Constant vigilance…

What Not to Pay a Lot For

Today I’m wearing a $3 sweater. It’s fuchsia, 100% mercerized cotton, from Jones New York. Also, I’m wearing $8 pants — black, lined, perfect fit — the label of which was removed before I found them at the thrift store.

My shoes are heeled loafers from the Kohl’s Junior section. I bought them on clearance, along with two other pairs, before I realized that Kohl’s had a junior shoe section. It’s where they put all the shoes with chunky heels, looks like. So, like… training heels? For teens who don’t yet know how to walk in heels, but still want to? I think I’m the only one buying them, though.

Normally I don’t wear heels with pants, because I don’t care enough, but today I have to because my favorite black loafers — flats — have finally given out. They’re broken in a way that I can no longer fix them. *Sighz!!1!!*

This is boring, isn’t it? Let me sex it up for y’all, then.

You don’t own me. Nor do you own my wardrobe.

I have this friend named Julio, and as his name implies, he is a latino male, and therefore he embodies certain stereotypes on a regular basis. (I’m sorry, latino men reading this, but y’all do. Y’all just do.)

Me: … and I had to wear heels today, because those shoes I wear every day? Now have a big old hole in them.
Julio: [with knowing look] That’s not why you’re wearing heels.
Me: It’s not?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. What does your boyfriend say about it?
Me: Dude. Stop being latino.

You see what he’s saying? No? Okay, here’s another.

Julio: I like your ring.
Me: Thanks.
Julio: So, is your boyfriend going to pop the question?
Me: What?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. We both know why you’re wearing that ring on that finger. You’re trying to tell him something. So, I guess all that stuff you said about not wanting to get married… You’ve changed your mind now, huh?
Me: I’m wearing my ring on this finger because I finally lost enough weight to wear it again, but I haven’t lost enough weight to move it to my middle finger yet.
Julio: Oh.
Me: If I want to get married to my boyfriend, I’ll just tell him that. With my words.
Julio: Okay, sorry. You don’t have to get all mad.

You see what I’m saying now, about latinos? No?

Me: So I have to go meet with the underwriter after lunch.
Julio: Oh, I see. So that’s why you’re wearing a skirt today.
Me: What the hell? Julio, I’m wearing a skirt because all my pants were in the wash this morning.
Julio: Whatever. Look, you don’t have to lie. I know how women are. If you have a crush on this underwriter guy, it’s fine with me. But does your boyfriend know? He’s gonna figure it out, when he sees that you’re wearing a skirt.
Me: No, he isn’t, because my boyfriend isn’t a possessive, self-centered latino. He knows that I dress for myself and not for every man on earth! Dammit!
Julio: That’s what you think. I have to hand it to your boyfriend — he plays it pretty cool, and obviously that works for him. But all men are the same, and we all know how women are. He knows why you’re wearing that skirt. You’d better watch yourself.
Me: Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you and every other latino man I know??!??1!1!

I’m not obsessed with my weight. I’m obsessed with the means of measuring it.

My scale finally broke all the way. For the past month or so, it’s been telling me that I weigh 354.5 pounds. (That’s not really the number, but I don’t feel comfortable saying the real number online. So I’m telling y’all analogously, instead.)

One day last week, it told me that I weighed 351.5, which was my goal weight at the time, so I chose to believe my scale on that day. Then it went back to 354.5, and I chose not to believe it.

Now I should weigh 349.5, if I’m counting my calories right. (Which I am, because — hello — look how obsessive I am about the numbers, here.) But the scale won’t tell me that I’ve lost two pounds this week. Instead, it obsessively sticks to 354.5.

This morning, it said 99999, then it said 298.5, then it said 351.5.

I guess it’s time to get a new scale. I was all freaked out about that, starting from a new baseline, within a new system. Because, see, I don’t care if the scale tells me my true weight — I only care if it accurately gauges weight loss. But if I buy a new scale, the baseline will presumably change, and what will I do with that integer of difference?

Julio said, “That what standards are for.” I said, “I have standards. What are you trying to say?” But he said he meant mathematical standards, and that I should put a filled 5-gallon jug of water on each scale, to gauge their difference, and then make my calculations from that. (He’s good at math. He has a degree in it or something.)

I was happy. “What a good idea!” I said. “But I’ll use a ten-pound dumbbell, instead.”

So now all I have to do is buy a new scale.

“So is that why you’re always in a bad mood lately? Because you’re starving yourself in order to change the numbers on your broken scale?”

“No. Shut the hell up.”

“What does your boyfriend say? Does he say you’re always in a bad mood lately? Does he think it’s worth the weight loss, to hear your bitching all the time?”

“SHUT THE HELL UP.”

Turkey Day, or Pork Day, or Mussells in Black Bean Sauce Day

I’m not cooking for Thanksgiving, after all. What with all the stress of my ex-husband suing me for custody of our kids, I am simply unable. Plus, I don’t have the kids for Thanksgiving this year, anyway, so I’d prefer to spend the four-day weekend loafing, not washing dishes.

We’re going to a Chinese restaurant — me, my boyfriend, and all my family members who’ve been displaced by my decision not to cook. My boyfriend wants to buy me lobster. I said I’d rather just eat pork. Or mussels. Or shrimp. Or tofu.

And I’m thankful. I give thanks for my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and especially my kids.

It looks, by the way, like this whole custody suit thing might work out better than I’d feared. Fingers crossed…

Whining Done

That’s it. No more whining. Really, I’m relatively content now — the bad stuff has been handled and potential good stuff looms on the horizon (always). So, I’m good. I’m thankful. I’m hopeful.

What are y’all doing for Thanksgiving, peeps? What kind of pies are you going to make? Will you send me a piece? A 100-calorie slice, please?