Want to hear me read the first page of my upcoming novel? Then listen to the worldwide exclusive I did for my peeps at Nuestra Palabra. My segment starts about 25 minutes into the show. There's another worldwide premier in that segment, but I'll leave it a surprise. :)
Check out this interview I did with Eric Ladau of Houston's NPR station, KUHF. Even though he made me talk about the intense stuff and edited out my long tangent about wanting to compete with L. Ron Hubbard with my own tamale-based religion, I had a lot of fun answering Mr. Ladau's questions. (Warning: The recording has 2 or 3 badwords. One of them is the F Word, too.)
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Linkelodeon!From Ashley: The New Republic interprets Barrack Obama through his writing. I was surprised to find them compare Obama to Henry James, with whom I am lately semi-obsessed.
Also from Ashley: The NY Times profiles Rush Limbaugh and almost makes me pity him, but then, not. Which is what they're good at doing, I've noticed: Showing you the hate-able-ness, then showing a little that's empathy-worthy, then coming on full strength with more evidence of hate-ability. Love it.
From Marq: This artist makes plastic bags into inflatable animals that only appear when the subway rolls under the grates that they're tied to.
Christina Ricca Cat disapproves.
Benny Bennassi feat. The Bravery
Weird-ass Benny Benassi remix of "California Dreamin'".
I found the two above when trying to find my favorite Bravery song for you guys and for my friend Brie, and then finally I found my favorite Bravery song, but only in one of those homemade videos that people make (inexplicably to me) with anime characters. Why do people make those? Someone please explain.
Whoa. There is a web site dedicated to making anime music videos, and they hold contests and everything.
From Mike: Italian Spiderman.
Meta links!
This post I wrote in 2005 has become a repository for complaints by and about Kroger employees.
It replaces, in my heart, this post I wrote in 2004 that became a touchstone for people searching for the Mervyn's online survey.
The most-read post of the past two months is the one about my cats having sex on my bed. I wanted to find the most-read posts ever, but my stats won't tell me that.
Here are the web searches that most often lead people to my site:
"topless bar"
"dress patterns"
"reggie aqui gay"
"boobsquad gwen"
"jehovas witness"
"kroger sucks"
"women of telemundo"
"is reggie aqui gay"
"gwen bitter asian men"
"hairstyles for fat women"
"emo acronym"
"club adventure"
"reggie aqui gay?"
"blt party"
I don't mind when people criticize my blog, but it bothers me a little when they misread it.
Dear SmugWatch Dude:
I do not do yoga. Please be less assumptive in your smugness watchdogging.
Thank you.
Labels: links
12:26 AM # (0) commentsTuesday, July 08, 2008
recent dream themes, for Ashley's eyes only(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. 9:59 PM # (2) comments
Sunday, July 06, 2008
I love to spend money, because I am American.Not even going to lie or feel ashamed: I am a straight-up consumerist. It makes me happy to spend money on random stuff that I probably don't need. It makes me feel secure. Rich, even. Even if some of the people working at Neiman Marcus don't agree. Today we went to the Galleria (frou frou Houston mall) and I bought a bunch of cheap jewelry and a cheap purse. Yesterday we went to Harwin (Houston wholesale district) and I bought... well, a bunch of cheap jewelry and a purse. Yes. Actually, Harwin was extra awesome because I ventured past the usual stores (Trendy Jewelry, called simply Trendy by those in the know, and the purse store with the drawings of purses all over it, and the Korean grocery store), and found a tiny store in the corner of a shopping center that had real Indian stuff. And I got an Indian beaded purse, plus several fabulous cheap Indian bracelets. Even a gold bangle with red beads, even though I never wear gold and hardly wear red. I love Indian stuff. But then, after that, we went to an Indian restaurant and I took my bracelet off, because I didn't want people to think that I was some kind of Caucasian person with an Indian culture fetish. (Because everyone knows that I have an Asian culture fetish, instead. Hello.)
I'll still pass judgement on other consumerists, though.
My boyfriend's sister got him a Coach belt for his birthday, but it was too big. So he drove us to the nearest outlet mall so we could switch the belt for something else.
When the newest local outlet mall first opened, there was a line outside the Coach store. Why? I don't know. I mean, I'm guessing it's because Coach is the newest expensive thing that poor people can almost kind of afford, right?
We went to the Coach store to return the belt, and there wasn't a line to get in, but the store was super crowded and had a snaky, cordonned line for the registers. I stood in line while my boyfriend searched for something to switch the belt for. All around me, poor girls stood in line to spend their week's paycheck on a monogrammed Coach bag.
Remember back in the '80s, when Coach didn't make monogrammed bags? When they only made bags in solid neutral leather, and their catalogs proclaimed how well made they were? And gold diggers asked for Gucci and ridiculed old women who carried Coach?
Remember when poor people were obsessed with Dooney and Burke, and everything with a D&B on it was valuable as gold, no matter how freaking ugly it was?
Remember when poor people were obsessed with Polo? With Tommy Hilfiger? With a bunch of brands that don't even exist anymore, but which were always emblazoned with logos or names?
I wished I could interview the poor people shopping at Coach and ask them what they were trying to buy. Do they literally believe that owning a Coach bag makes them look un-poor? Or maybe even negates their poorness?
I'm the same kind of snob my dad is. When we were children and we asked for clothing with branding or logos on it -- like, say, a Pepsi cap or a California Raisins t-shirt, my dad would say, "I'm not going to buy you a shirt that advertises someone else's product. Why should you pay to advertise for someone else? They should pay you, if they want you to wear that."
I absorbed that lesson and others, and now I'd rather go nude than wear something with a big, giant logo, or monograms splattered all over.
Also, I'd rather be poor again than be desperate to pretend I'm someone else.
I wish everyone was stronger and less concerned with bullshit. I mean, buy yourself crap -- I always do -- but buy it because you like it and not because you think someone else will respect you more if you shell out a certain amount of money. You know?
I don't know who I'm talking to, here. Those little kids at the Coach store don't read my blog, I'm pretty sure. :)
Labels: Houston, materialism
7:35 PM # (14) commentsshifted over to photo-blogging for a sec
Sometimes I'm in the mood to show y'all stuff instead of telling y'all stuff, and sometimes pictures are worth at least a paragraph or two.
See the empanadas I just destroyed, the fetish-y shoes I found at Ross, and exactly how fat/thin I am now.
Know that I'm reading all your comments and agreeing with them/ being educated with them/ appreciating them/ loving them. I just haven't had time to comment back lately.
(It's one thing when you have a job that you learn to do very well in the first year, and your boss refuses to promote you because you're just a silly girl and not a good old boy in a suit, and so you spend 4 years working for 2 hours per day and then goofing off online for the other 6 hours, every week day of your life. However, it's a whole other thing when you have a demanding job with a boss who respects you and people who appreciate your abilities. On the one hand, I no longer have as much time to respond to each of your comments. On the other hand, I no longer feel like calling in sick every other day for no reason at all. :) ) 6:41 PM # (2) comments
Saturday, June 28, 2008
recent food obsessionsI.
There's this place in Rice Village, in Houston, called Istanbul. They make Turkish food, which I guess is kind of like Greek food but not exactly. Case in point: their dolmas taste like the ones I've had at Greek restaurants, except sweeter, more subtly spiced, and more awesome. The first time I had them, it was 2 AM and I'd been drinking, so I wasn't even sure if I was imagining how awesome they were. But I wasn't. I went back there the other night and got three orders of them. The menu says "with sweet spices and fresh dill." They taste like cinnamon and maybe anise. I'm kind of obsessed with them.
II.
Similarly... Usually there is no good food to be had in my suburb. However, you can drive there on any given weekend and find a million billion children begging for money. They beg for bands, for choirs, for baseball teams, for Jesus, or anything. I usually give my cash to the kids who ask in the most professional way, or else kids who don't know at all how to ask for anything and subsequently get scolded by their parents and peers.
So, the other day, I was accosted by children in front of a chain store, and I gave a dollar to the kid whose older brother yelled at him, "You're not even doing it right!" Right after I gave that kid a dollar and he took it in a silent daze, I saw that there was also a bake sale. I walked over to examine the goods and let the very professional parents pitch to me. I bought a lemon bar and a piece of baklava. "Oh, those are interesting," one of the dads said. "[So-and-so's] mom makes those."
I don't know who so-and-so's mom is, but that woman made the most awesome baklava I've ever tasted in my life. I ate that stuff two months ago and wish to this day I could find that woman and buy a whole pan of it from her. Again, there were secret spices. I divined that there was grated pistachio, plus the normal baklava ingredients -- honey, butter, walnuts, philo -- but there was also something else. A spice, and not a sweet one. A very subtle bit of it. Was it coriander, maybe? Turmeric? Maybe it was fresh dill.
III.
Oh my god, I am so obsessed with Moroccan chicken right now -- the kind with preserved lemons and olives and raisins and olive oil -- that I can barely talk about it. First, I had it at this Houston restaurant called Saffron. That was my first time eating Moroccan food, and it totally turned me on to it. But they're only open for dinner, and we haven't had a chance to go back.
Then, the other day, we went to Whole Foods for groceries. (No, I don't buy my groceries there. I only buy a few things there that you can't buy anywhere else. I'm not rich, and even if I were, I wouldn't buy all my groceries at Whole Foods.) And, oh my god, Whole Foods' hot deli had chicken with preserved lemons and olives and raisins. And I was so happy, I almost cried. And I bought a pound of it, then drove it home and put it in the refrigerator, meaning to eat it for dinner the next day. Then, two hours after that, I took it out of the refrigerator and ate it all, cold, and it was so good I almost broke down sobbing.
And then I went back the other day to get some more, and they didn't have it, and I left Whole Foods without buying anything, and all the way to my car, I sang to that chicken: "How can I live without you? How can I... something, something, whatever? How can I ever, ever survi-i-i-ive?!"
But the chicken didn't answer.
I could probably go to Central Market and buy a jar of preserved lemons, yes, knowing as I do that that is the secret ingredient. But then what would I do? What are you thinking -- that I could use those lemons, and some olive, and some raisins, and some olive oil, to cook my own chicken?
No. That's never going to happen. Come on. Be serious.
IV.
For my boyfriend's birthday, I took him to Mockingbird Bistro. I had the braised short ribs. My plate looked just like this. I'll let you imagine how that tasted. (Hint: It tasted completely freaking awesome.)
I felt uncomfortable in the restaurant, however, because as we were finishing our meal, it quickly filled up with the kind of rich people who believe that it's tacky to care about one's clothing. Either that or they just had really bad taste. I can never tell for sure. But, either way, I couldn't stop staring at them. I stared at them and thought that they must have thought I was a tacky poor person, because I'd worn a pretty dress. I was torn between being ashamed of my obvious poor upbringing and very relieved that I'd grown up poor enough to wear pretty clothing in public. I stared at their ugly, old dresses and wondered where on Earth they'd bought them. It totally boggled my mind. I'm not kidding.
But then we left, and the short ribs eclipsed all my thoughts. And they stay in my mind now, and in my heart. (Not just in my arteries, you know.)
The Lucky Shopping Day
The other day I had the day off, because my job is awesome enough to give us random prizes each month, and I won the prize and I chose a day off from amongst the prizes. So I was taking that day off the other day, and, of course, that meant I had to go to my favorite thrift store for several hours.
Sometimes, when I shop for clothes, I notice there seems to be a certain color motif happening in my selections. That day, at the thrift store, I was working a Calvin Klein-esque neutral pallette. I found a million, billion skirts, pants, and shorts in beautiful taupes, muted browns, and creamy stones.
Then, magically, every single thing I tried on fit perfectly. It was only a matter, then, of picking my very favorite skirts, shorts, and pants. So I did.
Then, I found these shoes, in my size, in almost perfectly new condition, for five dollars and forty-five cents.
Then, to top it all off, I decided to scope out the men's jeans. I scanned the racks for my oldest son's size, and came away with one pair of Guess jeans and one pair of Lucky jeans, for ten dollars each. I'm not even kidding. And my son isn't a label whore, and neither am I (relatively, I'm not), but I couldn't pass that up. Who would have?
I left the thrift store and went to Starbucks to get a latte. While they were making my drink, someone accidentally made an extra shot, and they offered it to me for free. Yay, I said, as they poured it into my venti iced skinny hazelnut extra special double special drink thing. Yay!
Then I went to Payless shoes, just for the hell of it. Because my friend Brie always wears awesome shoes, and when I ask her where she got them, one out of ten times she'll say, "Payless," and I'll say, "Dude, you don't have to lie. If you want to keep your shoe sources a secret, just say so."
But she claims she's telling the truth. So I went in there to find out for sure, and I got two awesome, awesome pairs of shoes with the buy-one-get-one sale working for me. (One of them being the same pair I saw Brie wearing. Sorry, Brie! I bit your flavor. But it's okay because my feet are way bigger than hers, so they don't look the same on me.)
Then, because I was on a roll, I went to Big Lots and scored another beach umbrella, which we sorely needed, for eight freaking dollars.
Then, I went to Old Navy and, miraculously, they had more than one cute thing in sizes that fit me. (Granted, they were all different sizes, probably because they were each made in a separate third-world country. But still.)
And, I forgot to say, they had a brand new Benetton suit at the thrift store, and its price was $13. It wasn't in my size -- it was like size 2 or 0, but it was there, and it was $13, and I touched it and marveled at it and gasped in awe. Just wanted to tell y'all that. Just thought you should know.
And then I went home and felt happy.
The End
post script
I searched for preserved lemons online and found this woman's blog and immediately loved it. I don't like to cook, but this woman fills my head with ideas. I'm going to show her ideas to my boyfriend and let him cook the things she says.
Labels: gluttony, Houston, materialism, obessions
7:44 PM # (9) commentsMonday, June 16, 2008
Advice for Girls and BoysBoys 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.
Labels: books, psychobabble
7:53 PM # (5) commentsThursday, June 12, 2008
Here's a picture.For now. It's me and my kid.
Y'all don't forget to come see me at the poetry workshop next week. Seriously -- if you're in Houston, near the Heights, come on down. If you have books of mine you want signed, we can do that, too.
Labels: photos
9:49 PM # (4) commentsSunday, June 08, 2008
stress mismanagementRight now I'm stressed out for a variety of reasons. On the DefCon scale of Gwen Stress, I'm about a 3 out of 5 possible stress settings. So, nothing horrible. Just standard stuff -- work, other work, and the eight-years-post-divorce proceedings that are apparently going to keep happening for the rest of my life, or until my youngest turns 18, which is 7 years from now, so it may as well be... Oh, and I just killed my effing front lawn by over-fertilizing, and I have to hurry up and create a new lawn before the homeowners' association starts fining.
So, normal stuff. The difference today is that I'm trying not to cope with it by my traditional means which are:
1. eating sweets, or
2. spending money on frivolous things.
Which leaves me with no coping mechanisms at all.
What do normal people do? How do healthy, functional, sane people cope with stress? Someone tell me, please. Except don't say jogging. Although I probably should exercise. In all my copious hours of spare time.
that's all
That's all I can say right now. More later, when things blow over and the lawn is green again. Which I'm sure will happen very soon.
I'm going outside with a permanent marker right now, in fact.
Later, peeps. 4:02 PM #
Saturday, May 31, 2008
self censoredThe 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. :) 7:27 PM # (12) comments
Thursday, May 29, 2008
IM-in'Olivia: omg. XXXX and Johnny are myspace friends
me: who is Johnny
also, send me link to XXXXs facebook
earlier I was not really online, btw. just left gmail running.
Olivia: Johnny Guttierez hes a writer who was trying to date Terrence when i was half-dating him
me: double lame
Olivia: he’s in POETZ-R-US
me: effing super lame
Olivia: good writer, weird scruffy guy
and friends with XXXX
ftw
me: POETZ-R-US is loserville, unfortunately
too bad he's in with bad crowd already
i feel evil for saying all that
Olivia: for saying Poetz-R-Us is loserville?
ive never known a confirmed nonloser to do it
so theres that
me: he looks interesting in that pic
evil for hating on other writers in general, as if i'm high quality literature
literati
Olivia: he looks exactly like that pic, just more overbite, more slump
me: wonder does he wear army green all the time
Olivia: fuck it, be literati
me: did you go to smartpeepz lounge?
Olivia: im bitter and snarky too
me: can't be literati... too late
Olivia: no, ha
i was all obsessing about it
and then i just didnt fucking want to at all
me: why?
Olivia: so i didn’t
me: Derrick?
Olivia: i put makeup on and stayed home
me: funny
Olivia: id be happy to see him but its just the same, old, shit
me: same old song n dance
Olivia: and i have nothing new to offer, ive done nothing interesting since the last time i saw all those losers (interesting people)
me: well maybe it's their turn to entertain you, then
for them to stop being lazy all the time
[…]
Olivia: done venting. Sorry
me: don't be
it ok
you are in general rut lately, i see
Olivia: yes i am
[…]
me: right. so lamely boring.
kind of hate him, but almost too tired to now
Olivia: that makes sense
me: cats feel neglected lately
i pity them
Olivia: aww
me: but petting them makes them shed, so i neglect
Olivia: because you care about everyone and are a good mom
me: heh
crosspost proves you wrong
[…]
me: hey i have to take shower
want me to call u after?
(today was kids' last day of school, btw)
Olivia: ok, yeah that would be great if i paid my fucking cell phone bill
me: oh yeah
i furgetted
i gained 10 lbs
must lose it back
Olivia: so, no. but ill drive and go pay it tomorrow and then we can talk again
thatll be nice
me: then 20 more
okay
tomorrow is friday...
go to brie's thing on sunday and i'll see you there
Olivia: dinner?
me: then we have lunch or bubble tea
can't dinner... have to rush home and take rory to band callback audition
they gave him another, specially
Olivia: where is brie's thing
me: bc of dallas's band skills
brie's: Brazilian Arts Foundation, on 11th near Heights
Olivia: oh ok, well thats good
what time
?
me: 1 PM - 3 PM
if rory makes percussion, it costs me $400 + for supplies
i think we'll have bakesale or something
jabbering now, sorry
Olivia: no no, not at all.
[…]
Olivia: this is superlesbionic but not in a hot way
duuuuuuuuuuuuuude
sidenote *how do these crazy ass people find you
nevermind
i know the answer to that because i also have crazyass people and its the internets fault
me: she meant my placenta
just cracked myself up with that
in a gross way
Olivia: i know i know, dont worry i just meant i feed on your placenta
not weird, right?
me too though
me: HA. Gross
seriously, her words grossed me out too much for me to befriend
at least I liked XXXX's words, at first
[…]
Olivia: and who the fuck she is
lol
me: right? her and mouse in her pocket
her and the clone of herself that she molests?
fuck, i'm on a roll today
i should be writing a novel...
doh!
Olivia: hahaaha
me: my editor just floated, in miniature, over my right shoulder. she is pissed.
her wings flap real fast, like a hummingbird
Olivia: lol hahahaha
i luv this chat
you make my eyeliner run
me: something is feeding it
what are you wearing?
Olivia: because any eye moisture does that
me: seriously -- not in hit-on way
long red skirt?
i would say you need Bobbie Brown gel eyeliner, but i know you won't
Olivia: lol right now? im wearing a see through white
tanktop (its wet, obvsly, this is internet chat) no but really im wearing comfy clothes i did makeup before changing. long red striped pajama pants
where do i even get that?
have you heard of a little lipstick company called "wet&wild"? im wearing the new fall line. "raspberry"
me: funny
i'm going to put this chat on my blog, btw
i need to update but have no time to generate content
Olivia: im sending you a photo of myself. i r narcissist
did i spell that right?
me: yes. it is spelled "r"
Olivia: stop! mascara. god.
me: send it.
don't tease
Olivia: sending now
i have to change clothes in a minute
im going to drink houston
im a special girl
me: love, love the pout
oh god, not drink houston
noes 9:43 PM # (0) comments
Thursday, May 22, 2008
In case you're interestedHere's a video one of the authors made of the 13th Annual Children's Book Festival that happened last weekend. I'm in it for about three seconds, a quarter of the way through. Thanks to David R. Davis for sharing!
Labels: writing
8:07 PM # (0) commentsMonday, May 19, 2008
in DallasI met a lot of cool people, got a lot of good advice, and reunited with some of the awesomest artists I know.
Best part was, of course, reading to all the little kids. Little kids tear me up every time, and I'm not just posing or trying to channel Holden Caufield. I'm gonna exercise restraint and only tell you one kid story.
On Friday, I visited three elementary schools and read to several classes. (I even read my book in Spanish, for the first time. Exhausting, rolling so many R's.) But, so, I read and read, and then did my duty by inviting each class to the next day's book fair, at Dallas's downtown library. But I felt a little guilty doing so, because I had the sense that these particular kids didn't have disposable income cleared for picture books.
It turned out, unbeknownst to unorganized me, that Amerigroup, a sponsor, had purchased several cases of books to give away to the kids at the book fair. So all of us authors sat at tables, waiting for the kids who'd selected our books to walk up and get them signed.
This little 2nd-grade boy comes up with his mom and his grandma in tow. He runs right up to my table and says, "Do you know me?"
"Do I know you?" I repeated.
"Do you know me?" he said. "Do you know me?"
I realized, then, that he was asking if I recognized him. He was smiling like crazy, but behind him, his family had these distrustful looks on their faces. I could tell it was because they didn't speak as much English as he did, and they couldn't gauge whether or not he was about to be disappointed in some way.
"Did I meet you yesterday?" I asked him.
"Yes!" he said. I was right. I was the winner.
I asked him to remind me which school it was, and then we talked a tiny bit, and then I offered to sign his book. I asked for his name, and his grandmother couldn't resist telling me his full name. I spelled it out loud to be certain (it was a very Latino name), and they happily nodded. And then...
[Aw, dude. Here it comes.]
... he told me he wanted to be a writer when he grew up.
Sniff!
And I signed his book, and he ran away. That's all. I can't say anymore.
I'm telling y'all, those little kids tear me up inside.
Go visit the African-American Heritage Museum in Dallas.
They were the hosts of the event, which is reason enough to support them. But, also? Their museum seriously freaking rocks. I had a good long while to tour it (while avoiding mingling at the "VIP reception," heh), and the few exhibits I got to see were absolutely fascinating.
So go check it out. Tell Dr. Robinson and Dr. Dawson I said hi.
More later, taters.
Later I'll tell y'all so much more about all the famous people I met, and the fact that DC professors and syndicated cartoonists apparently can't handle red wine. (Heh. I crack myself up.)
I'll tell y'all about the shocked facial expressions I collected from other authors when they realized that I was the one who'd written that book -- the one with the dominatrix-with-futbol-player cover -- in addition to my innocent little book about tamales.
I'll tell y'all a story of a birthday boy and a tanning bed, maybe. (Sorry -- these inside jokes are obnoxious, aren't they?)
Also, I think there's going to be a YouTube video to link to, soon. I'll preview it and then share if my hair comes out okay.
So, more later, sweet taters. I'll talk to y'all soon.
Labels: writing
8:17 PM # (5) commentsThursday, May 15, 2008
espresso nervesIf y'all knew how nervous and obsessive I can get over certain things, you'd probably get annoyed with me and stop reading this blog.
For instance, I live in the shadow of a fear of having my carry-on rejected at the airport. That's happened to me once in my life -- the same raggedy, navy blue Perry Ellis pilot case I've been hauling around since I was born was suddenly deemed too big by someone at Houston Intercontinental (a.k.a. Daddy Bush Airport). And it upset me so badly I almost cried. See, I go through a lot of trouble to pack everything in that one case -- even if it's for a year-long trip -- and I do that because I'm convinced that if/when I ever check a bag, it's destined to be lost.
You know?
And, apparently, losing my painstakingly selected clothing and toilettries is the stuff of nightmares for me. Never mind that those things can be found in any city I might visit -- I can't even hang with the thought. My friend Ashley pointed out the other day that I keep tight control over my image, and having my image under the control of others bothers me. That's not the most flattering trait, but I'll readily own up to it. She said this because
[tangent!]
because I was reliving the annoyance I felt when, more than a year ago, some person had the nerve to tell me that I shouldn't wear makeup. That I didn't need it. But more than that, this person seemed to be saying that it bothered her that I wore it, because of whatever "feminist" (more likely classist) issue she was struggling with.
And I was like, "Who does that? Who tells people what to wear or how to look? Who has that kind of nerve?"
Besides men, I mean.
Just kidding!
I'm just saying. I have these issues. I think y'all know that. I think y'all might have gathered that after 10+ years of reading this site...
back on topic
The other day, someone tweeted on Twitter that an airline had misplaced her bag. And then she was listing some of the things she was having to do without. And, dudes, I nearly had a panic attack on her behalf. She was very calm and pressurized grace, though. Jackie! I was so worried for you, Jackie! I hope you're okay!
coming down now
Really, I think I just get nervous over stuff when I'm about to have a reading. I had a reading this morning, and it went well, despite or because of my background obsession with my carry-on bag and the potential rejection of it.
People were like, "Oh, hi. How did you get the idea to write this book?"
And I was like, "After this I have to go to T.J. Maxx and buy a smaller pilot case."
And they were like, "Uh... Can you just sign my book, then?"
I got to read to a bunch of kids and they were pretty awesome. Some of them made the funniest comments when the bookstore owner read to them. (She's reading Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog, and one of the characters in it says, "Have you ever tasted a hot dog?" and this 3.5-year-old kid calls out, "I ate one last night!" all matter-of-fact.) And then, of course, I got to sign books for some older kids, and they cracked me up, too. This one little boy holds my book open to the back page, where there's a photo of me and one of the illustrator, and he goes, "Is one of these supposed to be you? You don't look like them."
So I told him I'd give him a dollar if he went to a Jonathan Franzen reading and said the same thing.
Kidding.
And now the reading's over, and I got something blood-sugar-restoring to eat, and typing this to you guys has made me feel better. Now I can be calm.
Until I get to the airport in a few hours, and find out that they won't accept my carry-on, I mean. Or until tomorrow's readings. Or until the ones on the day after that.
I always tell people that doing readings is easy for me -- that it doesn't make me nervous at all. But I'm starting to suspect that I've been lying all along. :)
raspberry ants
I don't have any. Yet? Everyone's talking about them today, and someone at the book store said they were all over her house. But I haven't seen them. They sound kind of awesome, if you read that article. Not that I want them around... But y'all know I have a soft spot for ants, and also for crazy people, and these Crazy Raspberry Ants sound like three great tastes that taste great together, don't they?
(Knocking on wood now.) 1:46 PM # (4) comments
