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.

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 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.

(And for whoever else can stand to read them or who likes to interpret dreams.)

1. Again and always with the dreams that I’m tricked into living with and/or marrying my ex-husband. KHAN! Last time I had a really involved one, in which I’d won a “dream” wedding from Sears/Macy’s. When I showed up to participate in it — a little late, a little tipsy, feeling celebratory — I found that the department store had misplaced my wedding gown and wanted to offer me a shitty Miss Texas sheath, instead. By the time I got that ironed out with a late-night shoplifting trip at a nearby costume shop and a run-in with the local Mafia, I was getting worried that it was too late to marry my fiance on Sears/Macy’s’ dime.

And then I arrive and see that the groom is my ex-husband. And the preacher is preaching, and I feel like it’s rude, at that point, to interrupt the ceremony and call off the wedding. And yet I’m determined to do it. And then I wake up.

Annoying-o-freaking-rama, as you can imagine. This dream is obviously about my annoyance with my never-ending forced involvement with that person, which always occurs against my wishes.

2. I always, always dream about monster fruit plants. Usually I dream that there are monster fruit stalks growing in my dad’s backyard, or next door to his house, and I’m trying to cultivate or harvest them, but people keep interrupting me and no one seems to value the fruit like I do.

But lately I’ve dreamed that I’m trying to purchase monster fruit plants on sale from various places. The weirdest thing about it, as I already told you on the phone, Ashley, is that, in the dream, I never realize how unusually freaky the fruit plants are. In the dream, they’re just valuable/awesome/beautiful/desired. When I wake up, though, I realize that they were kind of monstrous. They’re like corn stalks covered with bunches and bunches of giant plums that are stuck together like testicles. Or, like, giant brocolli stalks covered with giant, blood red, tumorous peaches. They are fruit plants to be feared, but not when I’m dreaming them. In my dream, they’re something to covet and acquire.

I don’t know if they mean money or artistic acheivement. Maybe both.

3. I used to always dream that I was trying to ride the Metro bus somewhere, and I got on the wrong bus or couldn’t find the right bus stop, and it was getting later and I was getting into more dangerous parts of town…

But lately those dreams have shifted into something else. I ride the Metro bus and get off downtown, before it can carry me somewhere wrong. Because I know that, downtown, I can transfer to the exact right route. So I’m downtown, trying to figure out where to get the right bus, and I try to take a shortcut by going through one of the big buildings that I used to work in or used to walk through when I was a teenager.

And then it turns into some thing where I’m screwing around on the elevators. I don’t know why. Sometimes I need to get on the elevator because it’s one of those buildings where the ground is uneven and can be on G or 1 or P, depending on what side of the block you’re facing. But usually it seems that I want to be wicked and nosy and ride up the elevator to see what I can see. Maybe even to steal something. And then, eventually, the elevators take us someplace weird or scary, like a boiler room. But I don’t care. It kind of thrills me and I keep riding. And the other riders, even though they’re dressed in business casual and I’m not, don’t question my right to be there. Sometimes they even follow me, as if I know what I’m doing.

I don’t know what this dream means. Maybe that I feel like I don’t belong in Corporate America, but I’m doing well there, anyway?

4. Sometimes I dream about stealing the purses of rich old ladies. Their purses are always ugly, but I steal them. And then I feel guilty. But also excited. The goal in those dreams is always to stop someplace safe so I can open the purses and see what I reeled in. But I never do get to stop, and usually I lose the purses while on the run.

I know this dream says something bad about me, like maybe I resent rich people and have a chip on my shoulder and covet other people’s stuff.

5. Three or four times now, I’ve dreamed that we visited New York. Usually it’s by accident, maybe because Houston’s Metro bus took us there without us noticing. Once we get there, we want to make the best of it and have fun, but we don’t know where to go, and the natives aren’t helpful. Or else we’re afraid to ask them because we assume they won’t be helpful, because I read Gawker and Overheard in New York all the time, and they give me the impresssion that native New Yorkers are assholes who take pleasure in being rude to tourists.

So we end up driving/riding/walking around the city, finding our own fun. In one dream we shopped in Chinatown at night. In one we found a carnival in the middle of Manhattan. In the last one, I walked through a Lithuanian apartment complex and looked into everyone’s dining room.

This dream says that I crave adventure but don’t have the means to get it on a grand scale, maybe.

the cats, good and bad

I like it when the cats lie near me like curved slugs, with their arms and legs tucked under them.

I don’t like it when Starbuck scratches the glass patio door because she wants to go outside. Like all cats, she only wants to be outside if we leave the door hanging open so she can come back in at will. But then flies get in. So she can only go out if we close the door behind her. So she only stays out for a few minutes, then scratches at the door so we can open it. Then, of course, as all cat owners can guess, she’s back at the door thirty seconds later, scratching to get out.

And the sound of her claws on the glass is very, very, VERY annoying. So I yell at her to stop. But she seems to think that me wanting her to stop is only a very temporary condition. So she goes back to the scratching again and again, until I take more drastic action.

And that is not one of the highlights of having cats as pets.

Equal opportunity: I don’t like it when Toby acts possessive over me. Sometimes it’s funny, but then sometimes he gets all testosterone-y about it and I have to remind him that I’m a human being and not his conquest, and I have to throw him off my bed or whatever. And then he gets pissy and takes it out on Starbuck. Which is probably why she always wants to go outside all the time?

I just realized that my cats might be living in a Sartre-esque hell of my making. But oh, well. It’s better than living at the county shelter, I’m sure.

the photo thing

I feel like I’ve said this before, but need to say it again and will do so as simply and directly as I can.

1. I only put pictures of myself online if I think I look good in them. So, if there’s a picture of me on this site or on my Flickr, even if it’s not a stereotypically “good” picture, one can rest assured that I like the way I look in that picture. “I’m Gwendolyn Zepeda, and I approve this photo.” Like that. Usually, I only want to share a photo because I like the way it looks.

2. But it’s hard to say that. It’s hard to say, “Hey, y’all, I think I look awesome in this photo. Check it out. Check out this awesome picture, the subject of which happens to be me-e-e-e!” So, I don’t. I skip that part and talk about the more modest other part, like “This is how much I weigh” or “This is an old t-shirt I wear” or “This is a new hair color for me.”

3. And then I always manage to come off like I dislike the way I look, or like I need reassurance. And then people (very nice people) are quick to reassure me and tell me that I look nice/pretty/good/decent.

4. And then I feel guilty and gauche, like I was fishing for compliments. When I wasn’t. Wanting to share a nice picture isn’t the same as fishing for compliments, is it? I don’t think it is. Not for me, at any rate.

5. And then I bury the picture under a lot of other pictures or posts, because I am embarrassed.

Does all that make me crazy? No, I know: It means I over-analyze the shit out of my motivations and the impression I’m making on others.

But that’s okay.

In related news: There’s this person in my life who makes me a little nervous because she’s always commenting on things that I say or do. Like telling me to relax or telling me that it seems like I worry too much. And, when this person does that, it makes me way less relaxed than I’d normally be. And I don’t think this person does it to be annoying — I think this person does it because that’s normally what people want to hear from this person. And, finally, the other day, I had to tell this person that I liked myself the way I was, and that the way I was totally worked for me and made me a success. And this person accepted that, and I was relieved.

There are two people in my life, actually, who are always telling me to chill out and to act more confident and not to let on that I feel worried or insecure…
And I’m starting to think that these two people, who seem super confident and secure, actually aren’t. And that they’re telling me all this in order to remind themselves.

But I’m okay, really. I swear to God, if I didn’t like myself and have self-confidence and feel secure, I wouldn’t be able to talk about myself so much on the Internet, would I? Not for eleven years, I couldn’t. Really, it takes all the false modesty I can muster to keep you guys from realizing how conceited I really am.

Think about it.

Don’t worry about me, people who worry. I’m happy.

the other day

I played Rock Band with my son and his friends who’d come over for a slumber party. I played because no one else wanted to sing, and they needed a singer for extra points. “Want me to sing?” I said.

“Your mom sings on Rock Band?” one of the friends asked my son Josh.

“Uh, yeah. My mom’s, like, a trained singer,” said my son Dallas. But not in an “I’m so proud of my mom” way. It was more like “Duh — why wouldn’t a grown-up who knows how to sing, sing on Rock Band?”

So we played, and it was fun because we stopped being mom and sons and friends of sons, and became a force. A team. A rock band. We had three rotating drummers who I assigned to songs according to their skill level. Aside from that, there was almost no talking. As the evident band leader, I reminded myself to praise each member after particularly difficult songs. But that was it. And we racked up some serious points. And I felt the same feeling I have when my coworkers and I get through a really tough project. (We unlocked “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, and that’s my very best song. I’m going to sing that next time I go to a karaoke bar.)

I went to bed at 2 AM. The next morning, we woke up and went outside and saw one of my neighbors walking over from across the street. “I’m so tired,” she said. “We stayed up all night playing Rock Band.”

I’m telling you, man. The families that Rock together stay together.

I had a lot more to tell y’all but it’s night now and I can’t stay focused well at night. I’m really only worth anything (besides Rock Band) in the mornings. So hopefully I’ll wake up early tomorrow and get some novel-writing done…

Y’all have a good night, okay? Y’all have good dreams.

The other day I did like 2002 and posted an IM chat here for y’all to read. It was between me and my friend “Olivia,” and we were being very silly and clever in it. I deleted all the most personal parts.

But then I looked at it online, all visible to the world, and imagined the world seeing it. Specifically, people who might come to this site because of my children’s book. This is what they would have seen: badword badword hating sex badword children badword cats hate drama sex vanity badword.

So I deleted it. Not so much of the badwords, but because I realized that posting that chat session was a little like saying, “Check it out: Me and my friends are so witty that strangers should feel privileged to read our chat-distorted ramblings!”

Maybe I’ll re-post it later, though, next time I haven’t updated in a while.

the job

I realize, now, how people become hardcore workaholics who never leave the office. I realize, because I’ve been fantasizing about going into work on the weekends, or going in at 5:00 AM, just so I can get some stuff done without having to answer the phone or stop what I’m doing to go to a meeting.

You hear that? I’m fantasizing about doing work. It’s a sickness. I’m sick.

There is an imaginary end in sight. Right now, our particular workplace is particularly busy because of a certain law that recently got passed. (403(b) compliance. Do you feel a tingle of excitement running down your spine?) Soon (in two months? six months?) things will slow down.

I’m looking forward to that time, not because I’m lazy, but because just about everyone I work with is pretty freaking cool, and we keep promising ourselves that we’ll do more team-building (AKA eating and drinking) as soon as things slow down.)

So, there it is. Busy but not bad. Things could be less busy and not at all as good. You know?

the cats

People keep asking about the cats. Starbuck and Toby are doing well. Are they still having romantic relations? Yes, but only at night. Starbuck is a good Catholic wife and she only does it when the lights are off. If Toby tries to get romantic during the day (and he does try, often), then Starbuck yells at him and hits him in the head with her paws.

“I’m not that kind of girl!” she says.

“But last night…” he says.

“Unhand me, you cad!” she says.

“Um… How about now?” he says.

“NO MEANS NO!” Starbuck yells.

And then she kicks Toby in the face, and he walks away, dejected. And then she runs back up to him, inserts herself under his body, and strikes a provocative pose.

“Now?!?” says Toby, immediately Don Juan again.

“No, stupid!” Starbuck yells, and bites him on the leg.

It’s beautiful. It’s so poignant.

Besides that, they like to practice martial cat arts, and they really like their new cat food, which is the Purina in the white bag with the extra special flavoring added. It’s, like, chicken and orso with balsamic reduction. Or something. Can’t remember the name of it.

We just gave them each a bath, so they temporarily hate us. However, even they saw the amount of loose hair that went down the drain, and they were at least a little relieved.

More later, when I get the chance. PS, my hair now looks like Katie Holmes’ hair, but in auburn. With less severe bangs. And only because my stylist straightened it — tomorrow, after I wash it, it’ll be a wavy, wavy mess again.

How does this person named Six_of_Cups have one of my books for sale, when my book isn’t out until May 31?

This reminds me of the last time I had a book out on Amazon, and someone was selling a signed copy that I don’t remember signing.

Oh, well. This is capitalism, I guess.

flying; my pants’ seat

I have several projects due pretty soon at work, and there are still parts of our project-turning-out process that I don’t know how to do. Learning: Too bad it doesn’t seem to burn calories.

Also, I’m going to fly to Dallas in a few days, and I don’t have my plane tickets yet. And I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there. And I don’t know what to wear. And I don’t know what I’m allowed to take in my luggage.

And I’m too tired to look it all up. I’ll look it all up tomorrow.

high school reunions

I’ve recently come into contact with two people I haven’t seen since we went to Reagan High School together.

One seemed happy. The other didn’t.

happy Mothers’ Day

We celebrated the birthday of one of my kids, belatedly, instead. I kind of felt bad, for a fleeting instant, that I didn’t have anyone to buy a nice gift for.

I mean, I could have bought something for my mom, but she doesn’t like anything nice. She only would’ve been happy with:
a) a carton of cigarettes and some lottery tickets, or
b) a bunch of magazine pictures scribbled with a leaky pen and rolled up in aluminum foil, or
c) like, a black nylon coat from the Goodwill that smells like smoke or something.

Which is fine, except that I didn’t feel like shopping for any of that stuff.

(To those of you who are new to this site: My mom has been schizophrenic since I was very young and I’m so calloused and jaded about it that I can make flippant comments about the uncouthness of her illness once a year or so. Apparently.)

If my Aunt Sylvia were still alive, I could have bought her anything sentimental and she would’ve been happy. I could have bought her, say, a white ceramic bear with a lacy plastic heart glued to his chest with the words “Luv U Mom!” and a fake carnation emerging from the back of his head. And she would’ve been pleased.

But I would’ve bought her something nicer than that.

Instead, I helped pick out flowers for my boyfriend’s mom. I really enjoy shopping for flowers. I said, “How about candy to go with the flowers? She doesn’t like candy? How about shower gel? No?” Afterwards, my boyfriend offered to buy me flowers, too. But I declined. Because I wanted to pick my own flowers, and no one had anything I wanted. Seriously — the flower selection was rank this year. Prematurely wilted.

I told him I’d buy myself flowers next week, when everything’s replenished. Instead, I bought myself a pedicure, on Friday. “This,” I told myself, “is my Mothers’ Day gift.”

I mean, I would’ve gotten a pedicure either way. But still.

I might be secretly upset about some of this, on some level, and that’s why I’m typing so much about it. If so, that’s okay.

And it’s okay if you don’t like Matt Damon, because I like him enough for the both of us.

My kids and I had a Jason Bourne Film Festival yesterday and today. I love the hell out of those movies. Even though I hated the book, The Bourne Identity, when I read it was back in the day.

Everything is better with a little Matt Damon, though. I’ve always liked him. Also, did you all know that Clive Owen was in the first movie? And Eomer, from Lord of the Rings, was in the second? (That’s who my son said it was. I could check IMDb right now to be sure, but I don’t feel like it.)

video game news

They’re coming out with another World of Warcraft expansion that takes you to Level 80, and my lazy night elf character, Xora, is still only Level 35. Khan.

We opened up a lot of new songs on Rock Band, but my voice is still sore, so I bought some new clothes for my character, Xora Jane. I cut her hair short and dyed it green. My kids said, “What happened to your hair?” Kind of like they said about my real hair, now that it’s short and dyed red.

But, you know. These things happen.

We got this game called Assasin’s Creed that everybody keeps telling us to get. I had a long conversation with the game store clerks, during which they each explained to me, separately, that it was about the Crusades. (“What do they call that? That religious thing?”) So now I’m excited, even though I can’t play console games worth a crap because my fingers haven’t ever adapted to the boomerang-shaped controllers. The Game Stop guy said I should totally sit on the couch and watch my kids play, though, just to see the story unfold.

I think my kids paid him to tell me that, actually. That’s their fantasy — that I get rich and quit my job and buy them more video games and then sit there, watching them play.

okay

Stream of consciousness writing time over! It’s time for bed!

Goodnight.

Something’s in the air around me lately such that I keep finding myself talking with artists about problems and issues related to the actual act of doing art. Over the past month, I’ve thought about the particular concerns that come up when you collaborate with another artist on a long-term basis. I’ve commiserated with others over the different kinds of artist friends you can have. (Those you can count on to do work and to support your work, and those you can only count on for drinks, basically.) I’ve talked with a lot of people about the need to promote one’s art and how that differs/detracts from creating it. The two main art-related subjects I focus on, habitually, are art for profit vs art for art’s sake, and finding inspiration vs forcing yourself to work.

While talking about this stuff with other people, I began thinking about famous dead artists and what we know about their work habits. Do we know anything? I haven’t read any biographies on famous dead artists lately, but nothing in popular culture comes to mind. I know that Van Gogh cut off his ear, but I don’t know if/how he used caffeine while working. I know that Dali was obsessed with breasts and fruit-picking devices, but I don’t know if he ever said, “Don’t invite that jerk Man Ray to exhibit with us. He’s always late and he never chips in for wine and cheese.”

I read most of Stephen King’s memoir and wished he’d talked more about his cocaine use. How could he write, while addicted to coke? How did he physically, mentally do it? How’d he do it before he used drugs? What did he think of his contemporaries? When he played in that rock band with Dave Barry and his other writer friends, did switching mediums inspire them to write more, or was it just a necessary break? I don’t know. Doesn’t say. Maybe I need to go to the library.

There are live, not even so famous artists I admire a lot, and I always want to ask them intrusive questions about their creative processes, but I refrain. I know that kind of stuff is hard to talk about, and there might not be that big a market for it, anyway. It’s just shop talk, maybe, only interesting those in the industry. Guess I should say, then, that I’m greatful to the artists I know, for their willingness to talk shop with me. Because otherwise I’d be lonely. (Lonelier.)

My Least Accomplished Accessory

I’ve never been one for wearing belts. That began, most likely, because I grew up poor, and belts aren’t really accessories that poor women buy. They don’t buy belts, scarves, or trouser socks, I don’t think. Instead, they buy costume jewelry, cheap bags, and knee highs, because those things give you more look for the money.

So then, I became un-poor, but also fat. And fat women don’t wear a lot of belts because the only ones that fit are the ones at Lane Bryant, and those aren’t very exciting.

So… This story sounds like I’m trying to get sympathy, but I’m not. I’m just telling y’all that, for one reason and another, I’ve never really worn belts, and therefore I don’t feel comfortable accessorizing with them.

And now I’m not poor, and I’m less fat, and I subscribe to Lucky magazine. And, as all of you who read Lucky know, women are supposed to wear belts with every single outfit they own. You have to wear a pair of pants with a dress on top of it, then a cardigan wrapped over the dress, then a belt tied around the whole thing. Or, you can just wear a dress by itself… as long as you wear it with a belt. Or you can put the cardigan with your jeans, as long as you have a leather or canvas belt in plain sight on top of that. Or you can wear panties and a bra and a big, thick neutral belt. Or you can be naked, with a thin, metallic double belt.

You see what I’m saying? You’re supposed to wear belts.

Not that I follow Lucky‘s advice. I don’t — especially not as far as layering and color matching are concerned. I don’t know how it is in New York City, but here in Houston, we can’t get away with wearing dresses on top of other dresses, one in yellow and one in maroon. That’s, like, against our laws. It’s too hot for that many haphazard layers. Also, we’re still working the Three Color Rule here, as far as I can see. “Don’t be wearing more than three colors at once,” that is. Some people count neutrals with that, some liberal people don’t.

See what I’m saying? I’m not about to go overboard and buy anything that Lucky calls luxe, lush, or louche. But I do feel the need to buy belts lately, and I do wish I knew which belts went with what. Because the black suede number with the star-shaped rhinestone buckle? That I got from Torrid four years ago? I don’t think that works with anything in my closet anymore, and it’s too big now, anyway.

That’s all for now, y’all. Talk to y’all later. I’m gonna go Google “belts” now. Either that, or I’ll actually go back to my office and do some work.

I ate too much, exercised too much, slept too much, spent too much, and didn’t work enough. So, you know, it was awesome.

My kids got back from their dad’s today. Before they did, we hid three dozen candy-filled eggs and set up a new badminton set in the back yard. Hot dogs for dinner. Fun, fun, fun.

How Starbuck Spent Her Spring Break Vacation

She went into the backyard several times, under adult supervision. Once there, she explored and practiced climbing the pear tree.

Once, Tad caught a lizard and set it down in front of her. She immediately picked it up with her mouth and carried it into the house. “Oh, no!” the lizard said.

“A new toy, with batteries!” Starbuck said. She dropped the lizard in the living room and batted him between her paws a bit. He ran away and she turned round and round looking for him, stepping on his head with her back paw in the process.

I yelled for Tad to please remove the lizard from my house, before his tail fell off and became another lizard or whatever.

Slightly bruised but still quite alive, the lizard went back to our patio furniture, where he hits on female lizards to this day.

How Toby Spent His Spring Break Vacation

When he wasn’t eating, Toby hid under the bed. No, that’s not true. Sometimes, he came out to be petted on my bed, and then he sat on my head a couple of times. He tried to get petted on the couch, but being out in public in the daytime was just too frightening.

That’s about all I can tell y’all now. Except for the following:

I want to write more, but I can’t get my mind straight. I do have at least 3 things to tell y’all, the first of which is my thoughts on Gong Li. But I have to prepare myself mentally before that can happen. I have to get back into the routine. Maybe tomorrow.

I’m thinking about taking the bus to work every day, at least until gas gets cheaper again. My calculations say that it’ll save me about $80 a month. It would save more if it didn’t cost three damned dollars to ride our park-n-ride. How sad, that $6 per day would still save me money.

My boyfriend (fiance) took half the week off so he could vacation with me, a little, and he’s so sad about having to return to work tomorrow. I don’t want to go back, either, but he really is kind of depressed about it. Poor guy.

The other day, he and I went on what was supposed to be a 3 mile walk at a local park. (Teresa B, you know which one.) And, instead, we got totally lost on the trails and ended up walking 8 miles. It was brutal. My butt still hurts. And yet I don’t think that excursion negated all the calories we ate this week, unfortunately. Oh, well.

I got all my hair cut off a couple of weekends ago. I think I told y’all that, right? I didn’t go to my regular stylist for that one because, gosh forgive me, but I didn’t think she’d understand what kind of look I was going for. So I went to [chain salon that’s supposed to be all awesome], and my hair came out cute but sort of uneven. You know?

So then, a few days ago, I went back to my regular stylist to get some new highlights. And she saw my hair, and I told her what happened, and she was like, “Let me just fix the ends for you.”

But she said it like, “Let me just prove to you that you should’ve come to me, instead.” And then she totally re-cut my hair, y’all! And then she razored it until I was like, “Um, it’s okay if I don’t look like Victoria Beckham.” And then she straightened it, like she loves to do, and it did come out super cute… but then I tried to get a photo of it at home, to show y’all, and the photo made me look like a lazy-eyed Liza Minelli. (Sometimes I look like that, at certain angles. Can’t help it.)

And… I don’t know. I’ll upload a picture if I get a cute one. Or maybe I’ll just break down and upload the weird picture. Or maybe I’ll finally realize that it’s not that big a deal, either way, and that people’s lives can continue without constantly updated pictures of my hair.

We went to Katy Mills Mall, and someone there had a sign that said, “Happy Easter and Holy Week Sale.” And I thought that was weird, that they mentioned Holy Week like that. I mean, I get that suburban retailers in Texas sometimes get good results from pandering to Christians. But… Holy Week? What is that, like, “OMG, y’all, I got the cutest jeans on sale on the anniversary of the day that Jesus was crucified!”? I don’t know, man.

We saw a chick get handcuffed for shoplifting at that mall, too. She got arrested on Good Friday, y’all. Saddest part? The store she stole from had a sign that said, “Nothing over $8.98.” I’m guessing she stole from Sarah Jessica Parker’s Bitten line, because she simply didn’t consider it cheap enough.

Okay, that’s all. More later. Hope y’all had good Easters, or at least good Easter candies, or at least found nice things to buy or steal sometime around the time that some people commemorate some kind of thing.

1. I cut off my hair. It’s shorter than heck. Chin length with long bangs. I’m glad. I’m getting too old for long hair, I think. My boyfriend doesn’t think so, but he doesn’t have to be a 36-year-old woman with three kids, a conservative job, and razored-to-hell long hair. So I cut it. I took in a picture of Number 6 from Battlestar Galactica, and they cut my hair, and now I look like a mom. But I am a mom, so I’m good. (I might go solid blonde next, though. Screw it — it’s only hair, right?)

2. Toby and Starbuck are inseparable now, just like I knew they eventually would be. I would tell y’all cute stories about them now, but Toby just got on my lap and he smells like vomit, so I’m not in the mood, all of a sudden. I swear: Toby is a dog, not a cat. He always needs a bath.

3. Finally got my signed copy of Rob’s book, so I’m reading it in quick bursts while I ride in the car and etc. It’s very good. It inspires at least one laugh or one lip tremble per page. He had a nice turn-out at his Houston reading, and he cracked us up, despite the not-quite-hilarious subject. Congratulations, Rob!

4. Uh… seems like I had at least five list items to tell y’all…
Oh, I’m getting ready to take a vacation. From my day job and my kids, for a week, coinciding with Spring Break. Guess what I’m gonna do on my vacation? Work my freaking ass off. I have a novel to finish.

5. Uh… Send me your email address if you want my publisher to send you a coupon for 20% my Growing Up with Tamales kids’ book. If you’re already on the mailing list, I’ve taken the liberty of putting you on that list. But they promised not to spam y’all with other stuff, so don’t be sad.

That’s it. More later. Busy, busy day tomorrow. Busy, busy life.

I typed this in an email to my boyfriend (fiance) and decided to paste it here, too, so y’all know:
I feel, lately, like most of the problems around me are caused by unhappy people looking to make others unhappy. I want to be left alone so I can do my work and have a good life.

I put a couple of new pics on the Flickr page, including my new author photo and a pic of Toby and me. New author photo is also on the About page, for those who are interested in seeing it but don’t want to click all the way over to Flickr.

weight yammering

I’m a little bit annoyed by the fact that I’ve been losing and gaining the same five pounds since February 1. I want to tell people “I’ve lost 40 pounds!” but then that number changes back to 35. Back and forth, back and forth. I read a comment on a blog the other day (maybe Big Fat Deal?) where someone said, “The only way she was able to maintain that weight was by eating only 1200 calories a day and exercising for 90 minutes every night!!” And I thought, “Damn.” Because that’s what I’m doing every day, and it’s not working. I’m stuck here at this pants size that I don’t want to be.

My number one motivation here is becoming a pants size that is readily available in all non-plus-size, non-vanity-sized retail clothing stores. I’ll just say it: Size 12. And it’s not happening. And it’s starting to piss me off. Personally, I don’t think 90 minutes of exercise per day is a lot, especially if you spend most of your day sitting at a desk or in your car. It’s not like we live in genteel Victorian England, where everyone has a huge freaking garden to take an hour-long walk after every meal. So I don’t feel like it’s unreasonable that I might have to exercise even more. But I do feel like I either have time to lose weight, or time to, say, write a novel. But not both. Not with an eight-hour day job and 2 hour roundtrip commute. Very, very annoying.

(Note: The above paragraphs are about me, not about you. I want to be size 12, and that’s my business. My desire to be size 12 has nothing to do with your body, my opinion of your body, or American society’s potential, personal hatred of you. FYI. So don’t start, if you’re thinking of starting down that road.)

Hardcore judgmental thoughts, here. Avert your eyes if you can’t take it.

See… I hate lookism, and so I avoid people who judge others only by their looks. But, at the same time, I can’t stand it when people go around presupposing that everyone is discriminating against them or, basically, that any woman thinner/prettier than them must be an evil bitch. It goes both ways, you know?

A while back, I found some chick’s weight-loss blog. (I will never recall the URL and I’m about to hate on this chick, so I wouldn’t post it in any case.) This woman said she’d just lost some enormous amount of weight, okay? And she had several entries about how it now disgusts her to see fat people on the subway. She said she especially hates to watch them eat. And that’s her right, I suppose. You could maybe say her reaction was actually self-hatred and fear of becoming fat again. But still, I thought, “Well, you’re a miserable, insecure, lookist bitch, and that’s why you’ll never be happy, no matter what you do.”

A while back, that old Trainwrecks site used to link to a Livejournal group for “hot” fat chicks. Fat chicks who thought themselves pretty would submit a picture to the group, and then the group — in plain sight, online — would critique the hell out of the photo and vote on whether the submitter was “hot” enough to join their little clique. I saw that and thought, “I bet a million dollars half these chicks go to fat-activist sites and complain about lookism on a regular basis.”

This feeling has been boiling inside me for a while, and I’ve resisted posting it because it’s kind of sexist, but now I can’t stand it anymore and I have to say: Insecure women are a major force of evil in our country. Or, at least, a major source of annoyance to me, personally.

I mean, insecure men are plentiful and annoying, too. But there are whole industries built on the masses of insecure women who believe that their only value is in being pretty, and that, if they can’t be prettiest, they can at least judge less pretty women and hate prettier women. And then, of course, they give stupid men the excuse to walk around labelling all women catty bitches.

Disclaimer: I’m sure I used to be one of these insecure women, probably. And it’s only because I’m getting older that I have so little patience for that sort of thing today. (Maybe my reaction is secretly self-hatred and a fear of becoming insecure again? Heh.) But I’m not the only one who’s tired of insecure women. It seems like, in each of my social groups, most of the women are working, buying cars and houses, starting families… and then there’s that one woman who’s constantly comparing her looks to everyone else’s and worrying whether men think she’s hot. And the rest of us are like, “Jesus, bitch, can you please shut up about that stupid, boring crap?” You know? Like:

Jane: OMG, you guys, my mom has been really ill lately. She’s getting worse.
Sharon: Oh, no. That sucks. What are you going to do?
Jane: I don’t know. My brother and I are meeting tonight to discuss our options. She might have to move in with John and me.
Cindy: Wow, that sucks. Guess what, you guys! I lost six more pounds! So now I weigh even less than you, Jane! And guess what else. That guy at Starbucks? Totally checked me out again. I think it was my new bra. I can’t wait for Todd to find out — he’s gonna be so jealous!
Jane and Sharon: [stony silence]
Cindy: So, you guys, why don’t we go to that Starbucks, and then go shopping for smaller jeans? We never hang out anymore. You guys never call me anymore. Why is that? Is it because I’m thinner than you now?

Coming down now.

Okay. Sorry I had to talk all loud like that. I just feel like, lately, I’m trying to vent these feelings in a subtle way, but I’m not being very clear, and then people are like, “What? She said on her blog that pretty women don’t deserve to live on our planet? She’s a jerk, then! A fat, ugly jerk whose boyfriend didn’t buy her anything for Valentine’s Day!” So I wanted to clarify. Hope I did.

Later, taters.