deconstructionist diaries

More: A lesson in spots, dysfunction and nerves

2009-07-11T14:01:00.005-05:00

A lesson for you: Don't judge a banana by the spots on the skin. Because the banana inside might be delicious. True story.

If you allow me to indulge in past banana-eating habits, I will tell you that I like them green, green, green. Call me a reformed picky eater.

But somewhere along the way, I started buying my own bananas, along with other grocery store items. And when you buy your own stuff, you eschew past prejudices and start rationalizing. Hm. The milk expired two days ago, but [smelling it] baaaah, it's still good. If it isn't, then it'll at least clean me out.

Or: Hm. I just bought those bananas three days ago and already with the spots? I'll just open one and if there are more bruises than banana, then I won't eat it. Oh, a perfectly clean banana -- bottoms up, my friend.

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I went to bed last night at 11 PM, rather early for a Friday. Wait, let me backtrack. I got home from work, and a couple of friends were on their way to my place before driving out to Longview for some obligatory family function. I personally can't stand being obligated to go ANYWHERE, but my Catholic guilt always gets the better of me, so I oblige 85% of the time. So I can relate to my friends, who would rather postpone this trip to Small Town, Texas to come hang out on our couch for a couple of hours.

This couple is funny. They're funny individually with their insolent views of the world and filthy mouths, but together, they are an unstoppable force of dysfunctional entertainment.

For instance:
Her: Did I tell you the story about how I punched him in the nose?
Him: They've heard the story.
Her: Not from me. Okay, so he and I were fishing [blah, blah, blah], and he pissed me off, so I was getting in the truck, about to leave. He tried to stop me [blah, blah, blah], and I was just trying to get away, so I punched him in the face.
Him: I thought you'd broken my nose.
Her: [laughing] Yeah. And then, with blood all dripping down his face, he walks away saying, "All I ever did was love you!" Faggot.

Sounds like a sad story, no? But he's just as bad. It's like the story about the chicken and the egg. You don't know the original asshole who set the precedent for this highly troubling behavior.

Her: [in a skirt, showing me her legs] Oh man. I don't know why, but I have all these bruises!
Him: Close your legs.
Her: Shut up. So the other night, we were all hanging out drinking and HE was in the bathroom and I really had to pee, but he locked the door. I banged on the door so he could let me in, but it was too late. I pissed my pants.
[Laughter erupted.]
Him: That's cause you're all loose. That's why I told you to close your legs. So you don't piss all over their couch.
Her: Eat shit. I hate you.

Their visit lasted an all-too-short hour and a half. Then they went their merry way to Longview, where I'm sure they a.) Didn't speak to each other the entire drive, b.) Pulled over on the way and made out in the back of the truck, c.) Told each other to eat shit, or d.) All of the above.

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After a glorious 11-hour's night of rest, I woke up at 10 AM, ready to spend the next three hours drinking coffee, lazing around, practicing the guitar before my lesson at 2 PM. As I sat down at the computer to start my morning routine, my phone buzzed. I recognized it as a reminder buzz, and checked it, thinking it was some stupid reminder I'd set months ago about some bet like "Matt bet Dewayne a bottle of whiskey that the stock market will be at X points today" or "By this time, Matt's cousin will be engaged to his girlfriend."

As it happened, this was a more urgent buzz. I had to be at a work screening in 45 minutes. Fuck. Thankfully, I know how forgetful I can be and had the foresight to schedule this reminder.

Cursing the stars, I quickly got dressed and jetted off to this tweeny movie (which I loved, BTW), and pretended grown-up for the next two hours. But dammit, my morning plans were ruined. Chiefly, my plan to practice before my lesson was thwarted, as I'd mentioned in previous posts that I have been uber lazy when it comes to practicing guitar.

On the slim chance that Guitar Teacher might've sent me an e-mail to reschedule, I checked my inbox for such a message. And holy relief! Cancelled lesson.

So I relaxed, made some coffee, and ate a banana. So far, I like this weekend.

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"Lazy with music" might be inaccurate now, as I think I'm regaining my music mojo.

Sunday night, my brother was playing a gig at a small-ish mid-scale bar just north of Dallas, so we went to check it out. I like those gigs because they're low-key and more intimate than the big-stage late-night venue gigs.

We sat with the random musicians who happened to be taking a break from the song, and their girlfriends. At one point, they asked me to come up and play a song. Joy! I remember at this time last year, I was one part terrified and one part ecstatic to go up on stage. It's hard to describe, but the terrified part is gone, and replaced with "Who me? Oh, I'd be glad to."

I played "Death Came a'Knockin'" -- I am happy that I have moved on from the typical "Me and Bobby McGhee," although a great song, I have beat it to death at home and on stage. Maybe it's appropriate that I've adopted "Death..." as my new song to beat to death. Give me about four more years with this song and I'll tell you how I feel about it then.

So I got on stage, started playing, and I was feeling pretty good about it until the nerves came out of nowhere. I can't explain it, but the more I heard my voice in my head, saw the people looking at me, looked back down at my hands playing the guitar, I got that weird feeling in my stomach that streamed down my arms to my hands and all of a sudden, in the middle of the song, I was inexplicably nervous.

It used to happen all the time at piano recitals. I'd practice a piece for months and months, to the point of comfortable imperfection. I'd go up to play, confident, ready to do it. Then, about halfway, I'd realize where I was, that everyone was so quiet, looking at me, and all I wanted to do was finish and get off the stage.

I ignored the nerves, concentrated on finishing the song with poised awesomeness, and after what seemed like an eternity, I was done. Like any insecure artist, I asked Matt what he thought, and he gave me this gem, "I wanted to hear more."

There will be more.

Real

2009-07-03T20:36:00.003-05:00

I can't help myself. I am a sucker for sad stories. So now you are, too.

Sad things happen all the time. To everyone. But it isn't often when something sad hits close to home. It makes you feel. It's that pang of hurt wakes you up, in your chest, and you realize that you are not the center of the universe, and that people might really need you. And I am always obliged to reciprocate.

My friend's partner of 10 years died. Since I've known them, he'd always had health issues, so this doesn't come as a surprise, but the news still hits you and lays on your chest like a too-heavy blanket.

To hear my friend saying things like, "This is the hardest thing I've ever gone through," and "I'm not okay" is heartbreaking.

And it's so natural to put yourself in that situation. Like, what would I do? How would I react? Would I sleep all the time, too? (Yes.)

I am naturally curious. I don't know how much of that is part nosiness, and part "I actually care," but I asked her all kinds of questions. Typical questions like, "where were you when it happened," etc. What I'm feeling kind of guilty about is that I AM nosy. I want to know what is going to happen to his stuff, and who is making the funeral arrangements, and how she is feeling at this very moment. RIGHT NOW. Are you numb? Did you mentally prepare for this? I want to be there when she moves out of that house, partly just to see it. Will she cry? What will her face look like when she moves the last of her stuff out of the house they shared?

I feel guilty that I want to know all these things, but at the same time, it's a human study. This is what grief looks like.

Raw.

Human.

Real.

Home, etc.

2009-07-01T20:53:00.002-05:00

1. I am so tired that I am keeping track of the light and deciding when is an appropriate time to turn in. Exhaustion City.
2. My room mate, D, likes it when I go grocery shopping. He told me on day when I came home with shredded sharp cheddar, Oreos, and "good" luncheon meat from the deli. This tickles me. I still know this is true because the Oreos are only two days old and half the bag is gone.
3. Speaking of room mates. There has been some discontent in our kitchen lately, as we have all been exercising, which turns us all into ravenous beasts when it comes time for dinner, but tonight has been okay in that they made dinner and shared, and I am for once not a ravenous beast, so all is calm in casa de Sch-mith-ton-dler (yes, we have named our household) as all the moons have somehow aligned and I have somehow exercised all my demons during the day, leaving nothing but an exhausted heap of a mildly content zombie to scrounge for leftovers.
4. We all know that I like farts. Thus, my disclaimer to this tidbit. When my godfather felt the urge coming on, he used to yell, "Birdcall!" and let it rip. I kind of miss that.
5. I am feeling a new song coming on. It's time.
6. I love, love, love "Prairie Home Companion." Really. The show's passable, but it's the music I truly love. I still stand by this: I hate country music. But dammit, there is a gem in every one of the shows in the guise of a steel-string guitar and lovely lady voice telling of mamas and papas and aunts and uncles. Fuck, it brings me to my knees every time.
7. Operation Six Pack is going strong. I have abstained from the fast food (for the most part), and have been good about exercise, but dammit if I'm not satisfied. More lines! MORE LINES! The belly button skin is stretched across the hole like seran wrap across a bowl, but I need to see more definition. As if every line defined each hour, every five miles I've put into this dang OSP, which has taken the place of my music obsession. I MUST make time for both. Balance.
8. I had a really good weekend. Really good. I won't bore you with the details, but everything I did exceeded my expectations: kick-ass concert, movie experience, lounging around, more lounging at the pool, jam session at my brother's, then the anti-climactic cherry experience on top with 1.5 hours at a lackluster jazz bar, complete with shots and service from the usual tired waitress and music talk. We always seem to talk about how music can be better somehow.
9. My favorite belt is on its last legs. Tre sad, my friends. I bought it at Wal-Mart for $7.99 or something crazy like that. It's plastic, and is British-flag-themed, and I am sad that there is a big crack where my favorite buckle hole is. Thus, time to retire the British flag Wal-Mart belt. Probably in four weeks or so. I must find a new favorite belt. Soon.
10. A vacation is in order very soon. I am planning to go to the hometown this month for some much-needed R&R. It will be epic.

Man Day

2009-06-21T20:03:00.003-05:00

In one gasp:

Yesterday I had a "Man Day" in which I worked out and sweat like a mo-fo, went to play Top Golf, BBQ-ed with friends, then drank and played poker in which I bluffed people and belched and cursed and peed standing up (not really), the end.

Favorite Dad Moments

2009-06-21T12:27:00.004-05:00

1. The first favorite dad moment that comes to mind is when he explained the menstrual cycle to me. I was a budding "tween," and er, had a question, and my mom was out, so I went to the second adult in charge of the house with my question. I had already been briefed on what I was to expect in the coming years, but I didn't expect this change to come so early. And while my mom was out. And while my dad and brother were content in their boy-lands playing Nintendo in the other room.

I have to commend my dear father for explaining the mestrual cycle to me in such clinical terms. I remember standing in the hallway between the kitchen and dining room, which is probably where I ambushed the poor man with my question. Mary, our housekeeper at the time, who spoke English, was hanging around, wiping the counters ever so quietly as she listened in on this embarrassing scene of a little girl who may or may not have taken the first steps in becoming a woman.

My dad used all the scientific words: uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries, "every 28 days." All Greek to me. There was no emotion in our little chat, either. So when my dad excused himself to go back to boy-land and play Nintendo with my six-year-old brother (who I'm sure he was relieved to think that he will never ask him period questions), I was left with Mary the housekeeper who had been stifling herself all this time, and gave me a big hug saying, "You're a woman now!" I was still processing the science lesson my dad had just given me, and hoping my mom would come home soon.

2. It was my 14th birthday, and as it happened every year, it fell on Spring Break, so I was never in school for my birthday. My dad, the serial car buyer that he is, had decided that today is the day we go to the Island (South Padre) and purchase this Winnebago he'd seen in the papers. I saw this as an opportunity to 1.) Perhaps convince my dad to take me to the beach and/or 2.) Get him to take me to the Dairy Queen in Port Isabel for a sundae or something. I didn't get my way, but I do remember having a surprisingly good time watching my dad negotiate the price of this Winnebago -- a magnificent, giant machine with blue interior and no power steering or A/C. I believe he got away with paying $650 for it. Kind of an anti-climactic story, but still a nice memory.

3. My grandmother died when I was about seven or eight years old. I was moderately unaffected by this event -- the only things that were on my mind at the time were that the whole family was coming into town and that I was so, so scared to go to the funeral. I was petrified that they were gonna make me look at the dead body.

Anyway, my dad was sitting at the dinner table, just kind of relaxing with a cigarette. Maybe he was waiting for a snack or something, I don't remember. Now that I think of it, he was probably waiting for nothing and reflecting because afterall, his mother had just died. But he flagged me down and said he wanted to explain something to me.

He took out a tall, empty glass and a saucer plate and said, "You know, Mom just died. ("Mom" is what we called that particular grandmother.) You know what happens when someone dies?" He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke into the glass and turned it upside down onto the saucer plate.

He said, "The body quits working, but your soul is still there. It doesn't have a place to live anymore, so the soul leaves the body and finds a new home." Then he turned the glass full of smoke right side up and we watched the smoke slowly leave the glass. I don't remember if he said anything about God or heaven -- I think he let me come to my own conclusions about that.

4. I was in high school, and we lived in a house I fondly recall as the "Sunshine House" (because it was on Sunshine Road). It was late in the evening and my dad was going out the front door for some reason to take out the trash or something and I followed him out. I must have been in the middle of telling him something.

We continued the conversation outside for a minute or two. When it was done, he looked up and said, "Do you hear that?" It was a bird singing -- not chirping aimlessly, but truly singing. We thought it was strange because it was night time, and the song was so melodic and lonely that we just stood there for a few minutes and listened to this bird. He had this bemused look on his face the whole time, as if we'd just experienced something rare and beautiful. This might be my favorite dad moment.

Happy Father's Day.

Dear Facebook Friends

2009-06-18T20:56:00.003-05:00

Dear Facebook friends,

Please stop telling me you're hungry in your updates. Also, please stop with the laundry list of your laundry list. I don't care if you're at the gym, or if your baby made a cute face. I also don't care to hear about your happy hour which you are enjoying right at this moment because fuck, you are at happy hour and shouldn't be on your phone telling me about what you're doing because you should be doing what you're doing, and that's it. Cut it out. You are addicted to your phone and you should just stop. Now.

Also, don't tell me what you're having for dinner because I am jealous. I am jealous because my kitchen has been taken over by Nazis and I only eat half a cold hot dog, then throw it away because I am pissed off about the Nazis. They made the Holocaust and that's not right. Four nights in a row. That's the Holocaust.

Instead...

Entertain me with some pithy quotes and/or snarky observations about the world. Please. Make something up. Tell me how much you hate babies and how you miss hand-drawn animated movies. Bring something up that makes me want to "wiki" it, like the Bolsheviks -- I still don't know what that is all about -- or how Pushkin affected your state of mind right now. RIGHT NOW. Or tell me a joke. But nothing political because as soon as I see the words, "Obama" or "Iran," or "North Korea," I get narcoleptic. So yeah, don't do that.

You have your instructions. Now, go!

Update: The Nazis just handed me a burger, which I so graciously accepted because I am hungry. All the time. Damn you, Operation Six Pack. I am an animal.

Deference

2009-06-16T22:17:00.004-05:00

Heavens. Right when my dear LtFlux is coming out of his hiding, I am entering into one of my own. A small one, I think -- it may not even last the week.

It's the kind of hiding that is reminiscent of hidings of yesteryear. But this time, it's not melancholy or disgruntled in nature. It's more like annoyed and tired.

I'm annoyed at all the noise that seems to come from EVERYWHERE. And then when there is no noise, there's still that white noise -- I feel everyone else's noise. Is that weird? Don't answer that.

No knock on the people making noise around me -- except for annoying co-workers who insist on carrying out painfully detailed, inane conversations about what they had for dinner and what they're having for lunch and how cute this baby is, and "oh, I have to take this vitamin now and then I'm gonna go down the hall because I have to tee-tee..." Everyone else is cool. They can't help their noise. It's just me.

So that's annoying. What's also annoying is that I am tired. My brain is tired. I really want to take a few days off and enjoy this kind of day, or that kind of day, but I am paranoid that if I take a few days off, they'll realize that they don't really need me. That's stupid. But that's what's in my head right now.

I'm just whining now. The truth is that the nice people in my house right now are having a heated discussion about world events and all I want to do is hide on the computer and whine to the blogiverse. This hiding may only last one night.

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As for the no hooch rule this week, I am breaking it tonight. Like I said before, I am moody. And Operation Six Pack is coming along. I'm stepping it up a bit, as the summer is right here, on top of us, staring us in the face, heaving its hot, salty breath on us saying, "Youuuuuu...be...hotttttt." Take it as you will, but if I am going to be hot this summer, then I might as well be hot.

I'm seeing shades of muscle wanting to come out. It WANTS to. But I'm at that frustrating point where the body is responding to the diet and exercise, but the skin needs time to "readjust." I've been there before, back in the days of Operation Lose Weight! (yes, exclamation point) and I don't remember how long the skin takes to readjust, but it will happen. It will.

One of the joys of being young. Skin elasticity.

Listen to me, bargaining here. So, yes, No Hooch Rule is on hold tonight. As is my will power. But hear me now, folks -- three is the limit. OSP won't be affected. Much.

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I'm kind of worried this week. Okay, the past couple of weeks. I know we can't always be "on" when it comes to an obssession, or passion, but I go through hills and valleys when it comes to music. For the past two weeks, I haven't been able to pick up the guitar with any conviction. I've gone through this before. A couple of months ago, I went to my genius guitar teacher (GGT) and told him that I think I've lost my music mojo. I hadn't been practicing then, the same as it is now.

Hills and valleys.

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Hiding is over. I am going to finish a movie I started last night: LET THE RIGHT ONE IN.

Not Father's Day...

2009-06-14T20:11:00.004-05:00

This weekend I:

1. Thought it was Father's Day.
2. Went to a club, got free bottle service and danced The Cupid Shuffle.
3. Miss my brother and feel like a dweeb for missing him. He's on vacay in Austin and I am not jealous.
4. Yes I am.
5. Saw Mad Max for the first time and I want to see it again like now.
6. Showered every day. Rare for a weekend.
7. Had an awkward guitar lesson with a sub.

Okay, let's talk about this lesson. I've had a lot of music teachers in my day. I rate my current as the best teacher yet. Every week, I feel that he makes it his number one priority to target my weaknesses and work with me -- relentlessly -- to the point of exhaustion, all in the name of getting this or that point through to me.

I've always had this issue with teachers. They see potential in me and at first I perform well, but gradually work my way into a zone in which I get comfortable with putting forth minimal effort -- just enough to equally frustrate my teacher and keep me mildly interested. A word of advice, kids: Don't give 100% at first. Always start with 60-65% and work your way up. It takes control, but trust me, it works out better for everyone.

Anyway, I'm at the point right now that genius guitar teacher is working overtime to get through to me. He's pushing me, and while I appreciate the effort, the pressure's on me and me alone. I don't practice nearly as much as I should. In fact, I only practice the easy and fun stuff throughout the week -- specifically repertoire and sheet music/sightreading exercises. The hard stuff (for me) is the dang theory study. The chords. What makes this chord this and how to play it three, four, five different ways on the fretboard. It's daunting stuff, and frankly, a little boring to me. I want the instant gratification of learning a 1-4-5 chord progression, learn the lyrics, and BAM, I've got another song to add to my repertoire.

I know what he's doing. All this pushing is his evil, evil plot to make me finally learn my fretboard after six years of playing. And that's what makes him the genius guitar teacher. But I know his plan, and I am resisting it because I'm a lazy asshole like that.

Anyway, back to awkward lesson.

This new guy was pretty young, and I sensed he was kind of nervous. Must've been my super-sexy hangover cloud and runny makeup from the previous night's club dancing (see #2). I explained to him all the tricks genius guitar teacher was trying to employ to get me to (heh) LEARN, but to my disappointment, he didn't try to employ any of those tactics. It's not like I was disappointed that he didn't try to give me the same weekly beatings to which I have been so accustomed. It's that I was giving him the green light to be like his boss, genius guitar teacher, and in a weird way, try to give him some pointers as to how to brutally beat some theory into a student. Plus, I was hoping to get some new insight from a fresh perspective, and all I got was a nervous guitar dude who just wanted to jam and talk about bar chords.

Let me explain.

Bar chords are easy. If you can put your index finger down hard enough to hold down all the frets and make the same generic shape underneath, you've got all the tools for making a major, minor, dominant seventh and major seventh chord. I get that. That all lies within my "comfort zone" we've already talked about.

And the jamming. This was clearly his favorite part.

I was getting bored/annoyed at the bar chord talk, so I suggested we look at some repertoire. I know the melody of this particular piece (That's All), and I was having some fun challenging him to back me up on chords. I noticed he was one of those insecure musicians who was eager to impress me with his knowledge ("Your teacher is a jazz guy, but me, I'm a classical guy."), so I thought it would be fun to try to play together. Mostly because the fumbling around with bar chords was so awkward, I wanted to do something different, but also to see if he had the chops he was clearly so eager to show me.

Success. We fumbled a bit at first, but in the end, the song came out pretty well. It only took us 26 minutes to finally have fun.

Back to the list...

8. Operation Six Pack is coming along swimmingly. The hardest part is the diet. Damn you, weekends, with your pizza and hooch! All in moderation, I say, but still. Friday night was definitely a night of indulgence, so that's my designated one night this week -- the rest of the week is nothing but good stuff. Now how to define "good stuff"...

Despite these indulgences, I have noticed some improvements. I keep finding these new lines, which is tre exciting. I still have a lot of work left to do, but these new lines I'm finding are oh so encouraging. Nothing to do but move onward. Maybe one day I will allow myself to take an afternoon off and lounge by the pool, which is what I stare at when I am running, running, running. The treadmill strategically faces the pool at my apartment complex, and on the weekends the pool is full of happy, relaxed people who for the most part seem to have achieved that perfect balance between getting in a good workout and drinking beer all afternoon.

That's all for now. Now piss off.

Old list, renovated

2009-06-09T19:16:00.002-05:00

Previously posted on another blog in another time (November 2004). Updates in red:

1. I’m a cat person.
2. But I just recently accepted dogs into my heart.
3. I need my parents more than I should.
4. I’m chronically late to everything.
5. I love music: jazz, cumbias, boleros, Cuban music, blues...
6. I play guitar.
7. I play the piano.
8. I sing my heart out every time I hear a song that touches me.
9. I can smell a phony a mile away.
10. I cuss, but I know it’s not ladylike. I cuss and I don't care that's it's not ladylike.
11. I didn’t try very hard in college.
12. I’ve never tried hard in my life. I started trying in 2006 or so.
13. My favorite place to be is on the front porch of my grandma’s house in Veracruz at 9 in the morning. Still is.
14. I have broken a couple of hearts and am sad to admit that.
15. I don’t drive standard.
16. I have split ends.
17. Imitation is my thing.
18. I understand that the world will always be fucked up.
19. I love the water.
20. Cloudy days depress me. Not anymore.
21. Sunny days inspire me.
22. I play at night.
23. I’m a magazine junkie. I'm an Internet junkie.
24. I love movies.
25. I hate liars.
26. I can be very passionate about things. No, not "can be" -- I AM very passionate about things.
27. My idea of fun is hanging out at the beach with my closest friends.
28. But I don’t do it enough.
29. I am self-critical.
30. I am anal about English grammar.
31. When I was 14, I wanted to be a model.
32. I am delusional.
33. I have two half sisters I wish I knew better.
34. I don’t reach out to people.
35. I love musicals – they convey a magical world in which everyone sings and lives happily ever after. Bah, they're overrated. Those bastards were all on blow.
36. I love seafood – I may suffer from high mercury levels.
37. 13 was a tough age for me.
38. So is 23. So were 25 and 26. 28 is pure sexual chocolate, though.
39. Spongebob Squarepants may just be the greatest show ever. Over it. But it will still hold a special place in my heart.
40. I haven’t had a nap since college. Ha! I nap at least twice a week.
41. Flip flops are my favorite shoes to wear. I've evolved. Vans is where it's at.
42. History fascinates me.
43. Most people annoy me.
44. Swallows are the most beautiful birds I’ve ever seen – acrobatic, blue and lively.
45. The thought of having children scares me. Still does.
46. I prefer e-mail to phone conversations.
47. I love fart jokes. Also, I love dick and sex jokes.
48. I am constantly looking for something better.
49. I will always be boy-crazy.
50. No matter how hard I try, I won’t ever understand physics. Yes, I can. I just don't care to.

Some things never change. But we can evolve over the course of 5 years. Just a little bit.

Here's an updated list. I won't make it to 100. Mostly because I hate you.

51. At 28, I think I finally have a clear path ahead of me. This might be a bit premature, but it might be better to say that I am more able now than ever to create an action plan and follow through. Even if that plan fails. Which makes shit more interesting in my opinion.
52. The older I get, the less I give a shit about the consequences of my actions or what I say. Not in the reckless way, but in the "fuck you, I do/say what I want" way. It's awesome.
53. This new "Me" list is getting complicated.
54. People are easy to talk to. Really easy.
55. High fiving kicks ass. I'm bringing high fiving back.
56. In addition to loving the eff out of seafood, I add sushi to that list. Holy hell, sushi is good.
57. I'm in a good mind space. Better than ever.
58. I have absolutely no problem being served. Whether in a restaurant or in my home, it is always preferable that you bring me that bowl of cereal or please...can you take my plate back to the kitchen since you're already up?
59. There is nothing wrong with beating a joke to death.
60. I hate politics talk.
61. I used to be really into photography, but I am bored of it at present.
62. I relieved that I'm not into photography anymore. Documenting everything you do is tiresome. Plus, it takes away from the experience.
63. I like going out for walks.
64. I really, really like cooking. Never thought I'd say that one.
65. Gossip is so wrong, but I love the shit out of it. Even if it gets you in trouble, it's totally worth it.
66. I'm okay with never growing up. It is totally fun to be infantile, delicately mixed with the ever-evolving joys of the natural wisdom that comes with age.
67. Wisdom is optional.
68. I used to wish for a writing job. Now I realize that I can do any old job and write whenever I want.
69. In the spirit of Point #69, I have to say this: Sex is good for you.
70. Speaking of sex, the sexiest body part(s) are the hands.
71. I was an English major and I hate to read books. Not a big surprise here. Books are boring, unless they are the Twilight series.

That's all you get for now. Stay tuned for the rest of the 100.

76%

2009-06-02T22:22:00.004-05:00

A wee update. In a list!

- Operation Six-Pack is underway. And by that, I mean I will have a six pack this summer. Of beer. Not. Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing -- I mean, at age 17 I worked out twice a day five days a week and never achieved the elusive six-pack, but dammit, it's worth a go 11 years later, no?

It's unrealistic to think I'm actually going to work out twice a day every day, but I think I'm going to have to do the inevitable and cut out my beloved junk food during OSP. That and beer. That pretty much sums up everything beautiful in life. Oh yeah, and exercise, exercise, exercise.

Dear Pizza, #8 meal from Whataburger, Jack in the Box Egg Rolls and Jalapeño Poppers and Beer,

I love you but we're through. This has to be a clean break, so I won't go into how much you've added to my life with your awesomeness. Don't look at me like that. We had a good run, but I'll always think of you fondly. Well, eventually. For now, I must think of you as disgusting. Like turds. No, worse than turds. Like baby turds that are all yellow and smell like milk. Yeah. Get out of my life. You disgust me. Go now. Shoo.

(But bear in mind, that I fully expect you to take me back should I decide to return. Got it?)

Yours,

The D.

P.S. Please return my Bjork CD.

- Matt is in love with Natalie Portman. He is watching The Professional. Again. 'tsokay. I'm not jealous.

- Wait, back up. He just paused the DVD to watch Conan on The Tonight Show. I think he's reading my mind. Not like I was jealous or anything. Pshhhhhh.

- So it occurs to me that I've had this blog for four years and I've never explained my choice of name, Deconstructionist Diaries. I don't really feel like going into it in great detail, but to sum it up, it's because I was an English major and my favorite approach to literary criticism was deconstruction.

- I am full of shit.

- But only about 76% of the time.

- I have some very credible sources who have all come to that same calculation. 76%.

- So some interesting things have happened as of late. For one, we are now an economical statistic. Yes, ladies and gents, this awesome recession has not spared this household in that Matt has been laid off from his job, which was totally dumb and stupid and who needed that job anyway, right? RIGHT? Bah, I hate you, recession, but at least my house is now clean all the time, and he has time to fulfill his life-long dream: becoming a dog party planner. You heard me.

- Just kidding, Matt hates dogs.

- Another interesting thing. I played open mic night at this deliciously divey dive of dives last Monday. Where did this come from, you ask? My crotch. No really, I would've been terrified three months ago, but I'm afraid this music thing has become kind of an obssession. It's an unstoppable force, this music. The thing is, my brother, the guitar wunderkind, asked me if I wanted to go and it just sounded like a good idea. Kind of like when you're hanging out, having a good time, and someone passes you that 5th beer, and even though you have to drive home, you take it because eeeeeyyyyy, you're having a good time anyway and one more beer won't do much harm, right? Well, it's kind of like that. Except, ew GROSS, I hate beer.

In short, we rocked it, it was fun, and I totally want to do it again. Un.Stoppable.

- I am going through a phase in which I am convinced EVERYONE is on blow. Fuck the swine flu, if I see you sniffling, you don't have a cold, you are on coke, you dirty bastard.

- When Mando and I worked at the college newspaper together (the second time around), he gave me a certificate labeling me as "La Accuser," which I accepted graciously, with all the poise and humility of the queen of England. And then that rat bastard stole my red pen. I KNOW he did.

The end. BTW, Conan's current guest is on coke. Don't believe me? Watch it. Do it now.

This weekend

2009-04-26T21:20:00.002-05:00

Sunday's here again, and I'm feeling the need to recap the weekend in just a few words.

It's been a good weekend. Friday night with friends, stayed out way too late, Saturday concert at The Granada Theater to see The Kills, rocked my tetas off, then today another concert at the Meyerson to see the one and only Matt sing Mozart's Requiem with the Dallas Symphony Chorus.

Now for the slow up-hill climb to the inevitable Monday. Oh, Monday.

Traffic and BBQ

2009-04-03T18:13:00.004-06:00

This morning on my way to work, I cut off this Lexus as I was trying to get in the lane that lead to the highway. I'm not in the habit of cutting people off like that, and by no means am I one of those drivers that feels entitled to this lane or that lane. But something in the way the Lexus honked at me presented a challenge.

It wasn't a "hey, I'm here so watch out" honk. It was more of a "fuck you, bitch" honk. So I kept inching my way into the lane. Because that's what I do when I get the FU honk.

Part of me wanted him to hit me. Just a tiny part. But it would've been my fault and I can't afford the troubles that accompany a traffic accident. When he passed me on the next lane, he honked again. Another "fuck you, bitch" honk. And then I was glad that I didn't buckle because I chose the right person to cut off. He was an asshole.

---------------------------------

I'm feeling content right now. Matt just came home with our friend, Richard, and they're going to take advantage of this awesome nice weather and barbeque.

We used to barbeque at least twice a week. This was about two years ago. To me, BBQ-ing is the signature of happier times. No matter what a shit day I'd had, if I saw the garage door open with a BBQ pit going, I knew it was going to be a good night.

It's an event every time. Something about the proactivity. The goal.

I don't even care about the food. It's what happens during the preparation that creates the atmosphere for the evening and makes you want to break out the camera.

I've missed it.

How a wedding was saved from ninjas

2009-03-30T19:30:00.012-06:00

So I promised you a follow-up to this weekend's wedding, no?

Let me prelude this with a bit of brain ramblings. However similar, no two weddings are alike. I mean, there are the typical things: ceremony, "you may kiss the bride," subsequent photos, photos, photos, introduction of Mr. and Mrs., first dance and husband and wife, "At Last" playing while people eat, dancing, throwing of the bouquet/garter, cutting of the cake, more dancing, then the sendoff to the honeymoon.

But there are variables. Bizarro scenarios, if you will. For instance, every group has their unique dynamic. Some weddings are more natural than others. Some weddings are tense: you know which ones I'm talking about -- the ones that give you the sick feeling that they just wasted $25,000 only to get divorced within two years. Some have shitty music that totally ruin your night, while others have amazing food that have the power to change your opinion of the bride and groom.

This wedding, was to say the least, different. For one thing, this was 100% no question, the bride's father's wedding. Not my friends'. Mind you, they are adults with their own careers, mortgage, pets, etc. But I suppose they went the traditional route, letting the bride's family pay for most, half, whatever. So naturally, the one with the funds gets the upper hand in what goes down.

The bride's father is a Baptist minister. And a very gregarious and vocal person to boot. It became very clear to me during the rehearsal dinner who was in charge.

He shared some very touching stories, which both impressed and didn't surprise me because he is a public speaker by trade. I also got the impresson that the bride's family is a genuinely NICE group of people. Not fake nice, but really, truly nice. A rarity, methinks.

AND they were Canadian. Always a plus in my book. I met real-live mounties, ya'll -- one of which was the mother of the two very lovely and charming flower girls.

As I expressed before, I was very much looking forward to the ninjas. Let me explain.

In what I think is a sort of rebellion on my dear college friend's part (due to not having much control on how things were going to go down at his wedding and all), that there will be ninjas at his wedding. He asked a couple of old high school buddies to play the part and purchased some ridiculously awesome costumes on ninja.com.

While the bride was getting ready, the groomsmen took pictures. First, the serious pictures with all the dashing penguin suits. Then, individual photos with the groom -- very important, as this is a close-knit group. And then...

The ninjas arrived to fuck some shit up.

Die, ninja!

Victory!

In the end, my friends, the ninja attack was thwarted by the dashing men in penguin suits, and a wedding was saved. This is, of course, thanks to the guys' collective years of theater training and improvisational blocking skills.

And needless to say, I was overjoyed with the whole scene. This blows away any wedding I've ever attended, simply for the kitsch factor. At the end of the night, I didn't care that there was no alcohol, or much dancing because though this wedding lacked in the traditional pleasures, we found our own joys in spending time with some truly great friends with bitchin' dark/silly/ridiculous senses of humor and of course, witnessing the official union of two people who love each other.

And, don't forget, ninjas.

When I say "ninja" you say "go"

2009-03-27T18:31:00.002-06:00

Going back to the ATX this weekend! This time for a wedding -- another damn dry wedding, but a wedding nonetheless. It will be fun, despite the cruel, cruel restrictions...Plus, there will be ninjas present.

Ninjas, I say. Details coming soon.

Almost famous

2009-03-20T20:50:00.002-06:00

So my birthday came and went. I am now 28. I'd been preparing myself for 28. Twenty-fucking-eight. It just sounds so odd because I feel like I'm 19. But I'm kind of over the whole, "woah, 28, shit, etc." It's just a number, no?

I celebrated with friends at the usual haunt, 'locks. I piggy-backed one of my movie promotions onto the celebration, a choice I regretted immediately because that meant I had to "work" and take pictures of people with our promo items. But thankfully, two of my extroverted friends took that task on happily.

The rest of the week went by in a blur, and then there was South by Southwest.

Oh.my.god.

Even though I went to college in the area, I'd never gone to SXSW. I KNOW! Hard to believe. But this time it was for work -- a movie junket -- in which I was to meet [unnamed studio]* peeps, movie stars, asshole publicists, and everyone in between.

My boss and I flew in in the afternoon, and met up with one of the studio peeps. We were staying at the Four Seasons, and had a lovely little lunch and an afternoon cocktail (or three). Silliness ensued, and continued into the night, while the rest of the studio peeps trickled in.

Dinner was amazing. We ate at the hotel restaurant, Trio, where I had fish, and we passed around community plates of vegetables. Surprise of the night: I like beets. Yellow ones, not red ones.

After dinner, everyone retired for the evening. As it was only about 10:30, I was still in party mode, so I called my best gay and slurred something into his voice mail about how I was in town and does he want to come to the Four Seasons and live it up Patsy and Edina-style (Ab Fab).

Alas, he did not call back and I had no one to encourage my bad decisions (read: more drinks), so I ambled over to the hotel bar, where I ordered juuuuuust one more pomegranate cosmo, a bottle of Fiji, ate wasabi peas, and watched the hotel piano player. I went promptly to bed, giddy about the celebrity sightings of the day: Bill Hader, Danny McBride, Ben Best, and Carla Gugino.

The next day, I met up with my team, which was now complete with about 10 studio peeps to do the run-through of what was going down that night: red carpet event, subsequent screening of the film, after-party. We'd ordered this gnarly party bus, which was a real trip because there was a pole at the back of it. I want to believe it wasn't meant for stippers, but, well, it looked like it. And there was a TV, which was playing Days of Our Lives at the time.

The red carpet was insane. There was a bit of a calm before the storm, when I just kind of hung around and watched as more and more press showed up. I was pleased to see some familiar Dallas faces amid the chaos, but that feeling subsided as the madness began...

My job was to take pictures to send to the studio. I guess to prove that we did what we said we were gonna do, which was rock the [unnamed film] SXSW junket. So I went back and forth on the red carpet taking pictures, until I was advised to go inside, as the two stars of the movie were about to come out and things were about to get a little crazy.

Screening of the film, yadda yadda, waiting around for the film to end, yadda yadda. My big faux pas of this part was asking the star of the film to stand up, not realizing who it was immediately, to make way for two random people I was escorting to their seats. It was one of those, "really, Tanya? REALLY?" moments.

The afterparty. It was my job to wrangle the stars and their guests and get them into their secret service-type SUVs from the theater, to the party. I was running on kind of an adrenaline high, and had a nice time chatting with the chauffeurs, who were totally professional and at the same time really down-to-earth.

The afterparty was surreal. The VIP section was for people with red wristbands ONLY -- everybody else had a different color wristband and was banished to the other parts of the venue. Every time I went out for a smoke, I was made increasingly aware that the journalists and other folks were not at all happy with their non-red wristbands. They all wanted to be in the red-wristband room, where the stars were.

Okay, I realize that a forbidden zone like the VIP room is only more interesting because you're not allowed to be there. But really, people, it's not that much more interesting. It's just another party room. I never got the glamorous sprinkly tinglies that one would imagine from a party with stars. No drunk starlets dancing on tables in mini dresses, or lascivious encounters in a dark corner. Just another bar with stars and directors and producers congratulating each other, and us, the studio hacks who were there to babysit and keep the lookie-loos and wannabes out.

Again, my job was to get the actors and director into their cars and off to the hotel. I must admit, it was a strange power to have -- telling famous people where to go, and, "oh, no, not THAT car! The director's wife has her purse in THAT one. Go in this one instead. Thaaaaaaanks." Upon arriving at the hotel, I was with a couple of the studio gals and there they were, the movie people, drunk and still celebrating at the hotel bar, inviting us to hang out with them.

Another strange moment. Do I accept the invitation to join these people at this late hour and spend the next 45 minutes uncomfortably observing these actors who have entertained me and made me laugh many times before now, or do I play professional, take the high road, so to speak, and go to bed, preserving these people in my mind just as I know them, eliminating all chances of their image being tarnished in my head, not to mention risking my professional integrity?

I chose the latter. It was 2:45 AM and I had to be up at 8 AM the next day. Plus, I still had to upload the pictures I'd taken and send them to the studio, so I was up until 3:30. I still think it was a wise decision, as I was tired enough the next day.

The last day was my favorite. Yes, I was running on near empty at this point, what with the hangover the day before, and lack of sleep, but it was totally funny in a sadistic way to see the same people from the night before with their coffees and glazed hungover eyes going through their press conference (which was hilarious, by the way -- I have to hand it to them for how brilliantly funny they all are), doing their jobs just as I was. After the press conference, my intern and I were in charge of (very quickly) tearing down the posters and easels, and on our way out to the infamous party bus, we were suddenly caught in the middle of fucking mayhem, with fans trying to get to the stars, arms wrapping around me to get a picture, just ooooooone picture of [unnamed beautiful actress]. It was almost too much to bear.

The party bus trip back to the hotel was another surreal moment. We all rode together, me, the studio people, and the stars. The director, who was totally sweet and down-to-earth, looked at me at one point and realized that we hadn't met, so he just candidly said, "Hi, I'm ____." So sweet. Later on in the day, he asked me if I had any gum, and I shared my Bubble Tape with him and told him it's okay for him to get his fingers in it cause I'm not afraid of cooties.

Interviews at the hotel, yadda yadda, things were winding down, and we were nearing the end of our adventure at SXSW. Although I wasn't blown away by the hotel, I was impressed with the quality of their coffee, of which I had copious amounts. Top notch, and dammit if I didn't get the name of the brand. Probably something generic like Community Coffee, but you know how things taste different in certain situations.

I took more pictures of the interviews, a job that was starting to wear on me because it was kind of paparrazi-ish, but all in the name of my job, no? We had a lot of down time, so I had a chance to bond with some of the LA studio gals, some of whom were really cool. My age, thin, stylish, secret-fan-girl-yet-professional-types.

And then it was over. I traveled with my boss, who is not generous when it comes to praise, but I'll toot my own horn here and say that she told me I did a great job. Fuck, who doesn't like hearing that? The whole thing went swimmingly and everyone was pleased.

Especially me.

*(Sorry for the secrecy and vagueness. You understand.)

The Yahoo! inbox, limited

2009-03-02T20:45:00.003-06:00

This is not going to be a happy story. I'm warning you now.

My mother is a character. To say the least. Since she and my dad divorced, I've only known of a handful of boyfriends. She is a bit secretive.

To say the least.

Luis Miguel is the first boyfriend she was ready to introduce to my brother and me. This guy was special. She was not going to hide this one.

I was 18 and just embarking on the journey that is Matt and me, so I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was wary of this new guy who'd swept my mother off her feet and made her...happy.

I first met him at a very calculated dinner. I can't for the life of me remember where it was, but I remember it was nice, with linen napkins and you could smoke in there. My greatest rebellion at the time was smoking, so when I saw that Luis Miguel smoked Parliaments, I said, "hey, can I have one?" I knew it would make my mother uncomfortable, so I bummed one after the other, and commented on the funny hollow filters.

The months went by. He lived in Houston, so I didn't see him much. Just as well. I didn't want to see him. I was in my own world, and still not comfortable with this new man inmy mother's life.

He sent birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, "saludos," whenever he got the chance. I didn't appreciate or aknowledge any of them.

A couple of years into their relationship, I got used to the idea of him. I'd spent some time with him and realized he wasn't that bad of a guy. He loved my mother, and tried really hard to make us like him.

I noticed, after time, that she was natural around him. She was funny, charming, even, especially when seeing her through his eyes, which were always full of adoration. He celebrated her every nuance.

I'd observe little familiar patterns of her around him: they'd make dinner together, we'd have a casual cocktail while dinner is being prepared, sit down to eat in kind of a formal way -- he was old-fashioned in the way that he always told me to serve Matt's food for him -- he'd praise my mom for her cooking, and never failed to mention how her cooking is much like his own mother's; coffee, after-dinner cigarette, then jokes.

They loved their jokes.

One summer, Luis Miguel asked Matt and me if we needed some new couches, as he was getting some new ones. He said we had to come pick them up in Houston, but he'd pay for the U-Haul, and of course we could stay with him, and how fun, we'll make dinner, and have some drinks, etc.

Matt and I were living in San Antonio at the time, and knowing how I am of the "lonesome for family sort," a weekend trip to Houston for some new couches seemed like a nice idea. Luis Miguel was a solidified family member at this point, and I was rooting for him and my mom to somehow make it work: for her to live with him in Houston, or for him to live with her in Brownsville...

It was the first time we'd spent time with him without my mom around. The night we spent there, I remember drinking gin and tonics and we must have opened two or three bottles of wine. At some point, Luis Miguel got very serious and announced that he'd proposed to my mom a couple of times. Both times, she'd declined, saying she didn't want to get married. Fair enough. He showed me the ring -- a gigantic pink diamond in a perfect little box -- and it must have been the wine or something, but I hugged him for what seemed like minutes and wept. He cried, too, and it sounds like a silly drunken emotion-fest, but it was quite real and I felt as if I objectively witnessed a man's sorrow at not having the woman he loves. He didn't have her the way he wanted.

I can tell you of other memorable times with Luis Miguel, but I'm afraid I won't reach my point if I keep going down the proverbial "Memory Lane."

As fate would have it, LM and my mom broke up. The relationship wasn't going to move forward. His job kept sending him to random places like Ancona, Italy and Dubai, and finally Singapore, which is where he is now.

But not for long.

We've kept in contact, Luis Miguel and I. He never had children, and has always said that Matt, my brother and I were like the kids he never had. We talk on the phone once in a while, but the biggest presence he has in my life is through my Yahoo! inbox, where he sends two to seven forwards a day.

I used to see these forwards as a nuisance. Why would I want to see yet another PowerPoint about how Jesus Christ died for our sins, and if you forward to seven of your friends in the next 30 seconds, your life will be blessed, etc.

Now I see it differently.

There was one e-mail from him that had no attachment. There was no "Fwd." in the subject line.

The subject line was "Pragnosis del doctor" or something like that. I knew he'd had some health issues, but nothing like what I was about to read.

Long story short, Luis Miguel has terminal cancer. A tumor in his kidney spread to his left lung, and there's a separate tumor in his brain. He's fucked.

A separate e-mail went out to "undisclosed recipients" saying something to the effect of "I've accepted what is happening to me, I've been given anywhere from 11 months to 4 or 5 years to live, but I've elected to live out the rest of my days at home in Houston, where I will live out my days as if nothing is happening to me, and I will keep you all in my heart and my prayers."

This was about two weeks ago.

The heartache I felt was, if anything, confusing. I've never experienced something like this before. I'm grateful that no one especially close to me has passed away. In fact, I've been lucky up until this point.

And when someone dies, it's unexpected, sudden. Not in this case. Luis Miguel knows what's happening to him, at 55 years old, and has the unique position of having a vague idea of when he's going to die. Of when he will cease to exist.

When I first read the e-mail, I went into shock mode. Not in a dramatic way, but disconnected, as if he were already dead. I unwittingly envisioned the last visit, or last phone call, or last e-mail...

I've never been religious. In fact, I've been known to be quite contemptuous of religion in general. Thankfully, I've grown out of that insidious contempt and learned to just calm down and accept that it's a large part of many people's lives, even if it isn't a part of mine. But now, when I see a forwarded e-mail from him, I can't help but relish in that he's here one more day. One more day to send me an inspirational e-mail -- something that touched him enough to pass on. While he's still around.

I can't help but feel at peace when I see my inbox shows three new messages. I know it's him sending out his last messages.

As the weeks have passed, I've grown used to the idea. No more shock or anger. Just deep, fleeting sadness. At first, I thought about him every day. At random times, like when I looked at the new throw pillows we've bought for the couches he gave us, and how we threw the old ratty ones away. Why did we do that? Well, they were old...Etc. Or when I'm in the kitchen and reach for the blender that he bought us when Matt graduated from college, and remember the time he and my mom came to visit us in Dallas and my room mate farted in front of him and my mom, and how they just stayed quiet until he left the room, at which point they laughed about it.

My mom says, "Thank God for sparing me that kind of pain." Of course she means that she's glad that she's not in a relationship with him anymore and, oh my God, what could have been? In a short time, she'd be mourning the loss of her partner, and "thank God that that's not the case!" Her words, not mine.

If we were the kids he never had, then he is the step dad I never had. Even though the relationship between he and my mom has come to an end, I haven't let go. As long as there is a semblance of love and kindness, I don't let go.

And I won't. No matter how much time passes.

Catch up: January and February 2009 in review

2009-02-25T20:30:00.010-06:00

Oh hello! I suppose it's time for an update, my lieblings!

Christmas came and went. My dad came to town, just like last year, and in true movie business fashion, I had to work all through the holiday break. At 6 AM.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to work in the entertainment industry. It is the devil.

Luckily, my brother kept my dad entertained, and I was home early enough every day to catch a nap, and be with my peeps.

My favorite present this year was the entire week I had off the Monday after Christmas. Oh em gee, it was great.

I developed this entire curriculum for each day, as I was going to be totally alone with myself. Just how I likes it. I'll spare you the nerdy details, but it went something like this: 1 hour guitar, Unit 2; 1 hour practice repretoire; 1 hour composition. Etcetera.

On the first Monday, however, I was quite excitable after indulging in three glorious cups of coffee in my PJ's, that I ignored my first day of extreme musickin' and cleaned the garage for five hours. Five hours, my friends. That bitch was dirty.

How dirty you ask? So dirty that I had black boogars all afternoon. You really wanted to know that.

The rest of the week was spent adhering to my strict schedule, with the exception of New Year's Day, which I spent massively hungover. Surely I'm the only person in the Western Hemisphere who was hungover.

This was a sign that the year 2009 was starting on a bad foot, as I spent the whole of January pretty much scowling at this or that. And that's putting it lightly.

But February has rocked. I've started working out again, work is tolerable, Matt's health is back to normal, and I have to say the best part so far of this year has been my super gnarly, super SECRET trip I planned for Valentine's Day.

Let me explain.

Matt is an anxious traveler. I'm sure he won't like that I'm imparting this bit of information to the entire Internets, but he gets a bit nervous about plans in general -- plans that don't involve sitting on his favorite chair watching a movie. I'd been wanting to go on a mini trip for a while now, so one night I asked him if we were to plan a trip, can I do all the planning? Yes, yes, do what you want, he said.

So, I thought I'd take advantage of Valentine's Day being on a weekend, and his company's awesome "Relationship Day" policy (office closes the work days before and after Valentine's Day). I decided on a bed-and-breakfast kind of place, seeing how our apartment feels kind of crowded these days, and idea of getting away sounded heavenly. No knock on the room mate or his girlfriend, but I just craved alone time with my dude. So I did some online research.

My criteria was to go somewhere within driving distance from Dallas and to be somewhere hilly. The Texas Hill Country, although very beautiful, was out of the question since we know that area too well, and went to school there, etc.

A friend suggested the Ouachita Mountains in Arkansas/Oklahoma. I narrowed my search, and found this delightful cottage, appropriately called The Nest to spend our weekend away.

All I told Matt was that we were going out of town for two nights, and that we were going somewhere we've never been. I printed 10,000 maps, and put together a check list of what to bring. I was quite proud of myself for having been such a good little planner. Like a big girl. The entire trip up there, I drove, of course, with my trusty folder on my lap, alternately referring to it and reveling in the scenery, which got only more beautiful as we neared our destination.

Finally, we were about 15 miles from Mena, Arkansas, and I needed his help. The jig was up. I mistakenly printed the wrong map to the cottage, and for a minute I thought I was swindled, but alas, it was my mistake. Took this gravel county road, took that one, took another one and finally we arrived at this quaint little jewel of a place in which we spent an all-to-short weekend playing house in someone else's house.

Another faux pas on my part: I did not anticipate this town to be dry. Um, what? Matt thinks it's very funny that he had to explain to me what a "dry county" was. Well, there are different definitions! In this case, there was no beer, wine, or liquor within a 50-mile (give or take) radius of where we were, unlike some parts of Texas, where there's only beer and wine.

Anyway.

As you cannot celebrate V-day without champagne, we made the one-hour trek on Saturday afternoon to Heavener, Oklahoma for some hooch. Since we were planning on taking a scenic drive anyway, we figured it was better with a purpose.

It was indeed a nice drive. The way back was even nicer, since we took the Talimena Scenic Byway, and made a few pit stops to take in some dang nature.

Mission accomplished.

The best part of the trip was just reconnecting with my lovely man, as is the purpose of Valentine's Day, don't you think? This trip was great because it really felt like "the simple life," if you will -- just cooking, talking, sitting around, listening to music. It was a little bit too cold for our South Texas sensibilities for a hike, but I assure you that we will do some exploring by foot next time. And there will be a next time.

Other highlights include watching movies in the cozy den, the random country dog that showed up on our doorstep and accompanied me across the street while I retreived cigarettes from the car, taking pictures of the house, and everything around us.

Some more photos for your viewing pleasure:

Flakes

2008-12-21T17:21:00.003-06:00

There must be something about the holidays that makes everyone want to do stuff. Yesterday I received three invitations to do three very different things and of all the invitations, I thought I'd be honorable for once and fulfill my promise to go to my friend's birthday party. Not because we're close, but because she came to my birthday party, and that was the least I could do after punking out of the three or four happy hours we'd planned. Not to mention I punk out of almost every invitation I get, which seems to be happening a lot lately, seeing as people are increasingly hyper these days.

The flakiness is not entirely my fault. Yes, I can be flaky. But I also like to socialize. When I cancel on someone, it's generally due to laziness or last-minute social anxiety, or something good is on TV. Before age 18, I accepted and fulfilled about 80% of the invitations to social events I received. Now at age 27, I accept and fulfill about 25%. What has happened?

Matt happened. At first, it was the whole "we're too in love to care about anyone else" thing. But once things got back to normal, once I was able to see the world again through my own eyes and not through the rosey filter of lovelovelove, Matt had a say in all social engagements in deconstructionist-land.

It's embarrassing how often we've cancelled on people. I can think of three times off the top of my head. We're lucky to still have friends, I tell you. But I guess they know how we are.

Cancellations as of late:
- About a month ago, I RSVP-ed via e-vite to Monica's birthday party. She came to mine, and I thought it was only fair. I didn't really feel like going, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Plus, she's a cool chick, so I didn't want to let her down. Not only did we not show up, but we didn't call to let her know, either. Dickery level: 6.5 out of 10

- You know how there's a "top five" (per a certain cell phone company's famous campaign)? One couple in our "top five" friends were throwing a themed-out Halloween party last year. We never committed to going, but that invitation came after three or four invitations to dinner, drinks, come over to watch movies, whatever, so they were pretty sure that we weren't going, but extended the invitation anyway. Why? They like our company? They're polite? I don't know. But we didn't go, and after hearing that only seven or eight people showed up to their party, I felt awful about not going. Dickery level: 5 out of 10, given their prior knowledge of our pattern.

- A college friend invited us to her wedding in Austin a couple of years ago. For weeks, we gave her the runaround: we don't know our work schedule, but dammit, we want to go, I don't know, just put us down for an RSVP, I guess. The week before the wedding, she called us, desperate to know if we're planning on going to the wedding, that she HAS to know (but not in the bridezilla way, I promise). Oh, I don't know, sure. I mean, maybe. As is our custom, we didn't go, not that we'd ever planned to, and imagine the pang of guilt I felt when I found a "thank you" postcard from her a few weeks later. Because we were on the RSVP list and that shit goes out to people who RSVP-ed and actually went to the wedding. Dickery level: 10 out of 10. Mostly because I now know that when you RSVP, that means they pay for you, and sometimes that's like $100 a head!

If there was a time for New Year's resolutions, this is as good a time as any.

Resolution #1: Learn to say "no." If you know you're not going to do something, don't pretend you're going to do it just to save face. The consequences (guilt, resentment) are worse than the truth.
Resolution #2: Accept more invitations. This could end up being a contradiction to Resolution #1, but I'm serious. We've developed quite the reputation for being homebodies over the years, and while that might make my partner happy, it does not make me happy all the time. I need to see my friends once in a while. And plus, it's not normal to be so anti-social! At least not for me.

I'm happy to have fulfilled my friendly duties last night. I don't know if it made my friend's birthday more special, but I'd like to think it did. And you know what? We actually had fun last night.

I'd regale you with stories from last night, but you just had to be there, I guess.

My Year in Lists

2008-12-17T19:11:00.003-06:00

Best trip: New York City, January
I was there a couple of days after Heath Ledger died, which didn't make the trip better or anything. It did, however, create a strange, atmosphere of dark lore. Or something like that. Anyway, it was my first time in NY and the reason I was there made it remarkable. Matt was singing with the Dallas Symphony Chorus at Carnegie Hall, so I was especially stoked. We were also there with good friends, two of whom came from San Antonio just to see him, which made my heart warm and fuzzy despite the 20-degree weather.

Second-best trip: Brownsville, Texas, July
I went on a fancy, fancy boat trip with nice people, made my guitar debut, and got an excellent tan.

Best decision: The decision to take guitar lessons, March.
These lessons have not only re-ignited my passion for guitar, but most importantly my passion for music. Since then, I have refined my musical tastes (thanks to Spin Magazine and Limewire) and decided what I would love to dedicate my life to, provided that money and full-time work were not an option: music.

Second-best decision: To take my job more seriously.
Thank you very much, unstable economy (and CNN and FoxNews!) for making me afraid to leave my job capriciously whenever I have a bad day. I have a five-year history of hating my job situation and I'm just done with that. You know how you're supposed to love the one you're with? Love the job you're in. Cause you're kind of lucky to have one. Fuck what the news tells us. All I have to do is look around me and see people I know who are jobless, been laid off, etc. This is not the time to be picky and I realize that. Plus, shit, I have a decent job. It doesn't pay much and my boss is a bitch sometimes, but it's fulfilling (when I'm not moving boxes) and I am ENCOURAGED to be creative and think for myself. Not everyone can say that.

Best $500 earned: Jewelry commercial, January
My agency handles a certain jewelry account, and for the Valentine's Day campaign, I received a staff e-mail for "cute couples" to audition and answer some personal questions candidly. Matt and I made it to the final cut and thus earned ourselves $500 and a cute ad that documents our relationship in its eighth year. I'm too shy to post it here, but if you'd like to see it, post a comment with your e-mail addie and I'll send it to you.

Best moment for the USA: When Obama won the presidential election, November
No matter who your candidate of choice was, I think that it was truly a beautiful moment when the American people elected a young(ish) energetic "mutt" to be our next president. I'm not concerned with the fact that he's our first black president (we're all part something if we dig deep enough), I'm talking about someone who is smart, and decidedly NOT George Bush. People seem to not like him. People like Obama. A happy country that believes in its leader might just be the remedy to our woeful collective morale.*

Worst month of 2008: November
Matt was in the hospital. That sucked. He's still sick. That still sucks. Between waiting to find out if surgery is necessary and the stress of work, life, money, etc., well, I'd say that the last month has sucked enough for the whole year. Here's hoping that January will bring less suck.

Best drink: Whiskey and Coke
My favorite drink of the year. It's no new thing: I'm not the first to discover this drink. But I'm just saying: it's my drink of choice these days.

That's it for the list. K bye.

Pens, pens, pens!

2008-12-06T16:35:00.002-06:00

I searched my apartment and car for a pencil for 45 minutes and found 18 pens, three highlighters, one Sharpie, and (finally) two pencils. I am very pleased to find that one is fully sharpened and the other is self-advancing.

Music makes the journey tolerable and keeps the meltdown at bay

2008-11-23T18:21:00.004-06:00

I've been looking up music today. I'm tired of the music on my iPod. I found this little gem called Laura Marling. Look her up. She's amazing. Well, if you like acoustic girls, which is what I'm finding is my cup o' tea.

I've had an interesting last couple of weeks. Matt is sick. He's okay, but still sick. He went to the hospital last week and what seemed like a joke, from the silly abdominal pain and bloating to the subsequent hilarious morphine drip...turned into something more serious that turned into a sobering three-night hospital stay, IV drip and the imminent "s-word" -- surgery. I stayed with him two nights in the hospital -- a first for me --, until a crick in my neck from the luxurious fold out couch prevented me from staying the last night. I frankly couldn't take the severity of it all. Toward the end there, I needed my time alone. And my bed. He came home on a Friday, with new instructions on what to feed him and prescriptions for antibiotics, and I've been a slave to this thing called "diverticulitis" ever since.

Tomorrow is the appointment with the surgeon. He will surely say the s-word and that it will happen soon, thwarting my Thanksgiving plans, but hey, maybe this will give new meaning to the holiday we all call "Thanksgiving." Plus, I'm glad that we'll have face-time with a professional who will be available to answer our every question: "why can't he pass gas? Why the bloating? How much will this cost? Why is he sleeping all the time? (Gulp) Recovery time?"

Tomorrow is also our nine-year anniversary. Good timing, eh? He asked me what I wanted, and while I really wanted to say, "Your health," I realized it was so very cliché and dramatic, so I simply said, "Nothing, just take me out." I just want to have a nice dinner with my one and only. I'll toast to his health privately.

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I said it was an interesting week. I take that back -- it's been an interesting month. My brother, the guitarist, has proposed that we start a band of our own. Well, no -- he said he was starting his own band, to which I responded, "Can I be in it?" "Yeah, sure, you can play keyboards," he said.

Keyboards have turned into guitar, as the original bassist has been flaky as of late. I don't know bass, so Eddie is taking on that role, which scares me to death, because although I know my chords, I am not the guitarist he is, and I know I'll just feel foolish on stage holding a guitar next to him. It's all in my head, really. But seriously. I want to be the best band ever, and brother-man's telling me he's "always wanted to play bass in his own band, anyway." Heh?

I'm frustrated. By life in general, although I'm trying to keep a positive outlook here. But my band has been "formed" for about a month now and setting a time to practice is beyond difficult. Our schedules keep conflicting, something keeps coming up, the Cowboys game is on, etc. Excuses, excuses, excuses. We've even auditioned a drummer...

I have a right mind to do my own thing. Sod this fake band, and do my own thing. Work on my repretoire, and just go out there and do it. Do. It.

I don't need anybody to hold my hand. I'm a grown-ass woman, capable of doing my own thing whenever and however I damn well please. I'm going to do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

I'm very sad about these current times. Let me explain.

The best situation for me right now to create music is to have a shitload of free time, go back to school to make the time worthwhile somehow, and work a part-time job. At this time I feel tied to my job -- a feeling I've never had before! No matter how much I hate it, hate my co-workers, hate my boss, I have this sinking feeling that I NEED my job, that I should be aware of how many people out there are SO LUCKY to have jobs, etc. School is apparently more expensive than ever right now, and even if I did decide to go back for a second bachelor's or master's, it would only be for the wrong reasons anyway. Just to buy time to write an album or [vomit] to find myself late-bloomer-style. Because I didn't really find anything the first time around.

Here's to the journey...

My pretend Stay-cation

2008-10-29T19:10:00.003-06:00

Out of curiosity, I e-mailed the vacation/sick days lady at work to see how many vacation days I have. Turns out I had more than I thought: 11 days!

I don't think this has ever happened to me. For once I can day dream about a vacation and quite possibly achieve it.

This is what I would do with an 11-day vacation...no, better yet: an 11-day STAY-cation:

- Wake up at 8 AM like I wasn't on stay-cation. Except, laze around in my pajamas while Matt gets ready for work, and even wander downstairs like a sleepy toddler on Christmas morning to make coffee. I would drink two cups, kiss Matt good-bye, browse the Internet for 45 minutes and go back to bed until 11:30.
- I'd run on the treadmill every day. Don't judge me! I like it...
- I’d send all my friends who work in offices at least one lolcat picture a day.
- Photoshop a picture of poop into something, e-mail it to my mom, and tell her it’s one of those puzzles that you have to look really hard to see the sailboat.
- Finally hand-wash and dry clean all the clothes on my closet floor.
- Spend at least one entire day talking to myself in an English accent, Supernanny-style and when the phone rings, order it to go to its naughty corner!
- I would work on at least two hours of music every day – not just screwing around on the guitar, but really challenging myself to learn and achieve a specific goal.
- Actually learn how to use my video camera and make at least one mini movie in which the word, "fuck" will be used at least 37 times. Maybe I'll call it, "The Fuck-gina Monologues."

Procrastination-ville, pop. me

2008-10-24T18:58:00.005-05:00

Matt broke my coffee pot while cleaning it last weekend. When I came downstairs on Saturday morning, he told me, "I've got some bad news."

At first I thought, "who died?" But then he said, "well, it's not terrible, but it's kinda bad. I broke your coffee pot."

Okay. We can deal with that.

Looking at his face, tormented by fear of my wrath, I thought, "what kind of monster am I that this kind of news would upset me?" Is he really that scared of me?

Apparently he is. Immediately after breaking said coffee pot, he got online and ordered me a new one. Good man.

The new coffee pot came in today. No harm done, I say. I've been enjoying ordering my small coffees at the little cafe downstairs from my office. The cafe's run by a Korean couple who seem to delight in teaching me new Korean phrases. I can practically carry a conversation with them entirely in Korean: "Good morning. Small coffee, please? Thank you. Here you go. Thank you, good bye!"

--------------------------

I felt like such a loser today. It was as if I couldn't do anything right. I got hassled three times today, and I don't know why I'm so sensitive sometimes -- I'm a different person at work than in day-to-day life, I swear -- but I'll be damned if I didn't hold back some tears at some point during the day.

I'll admit, I'm really distracted by this copywriting thing. I sent my friend my resume two weeks ago and after contacting her once, I only got one lackluster response saying, "I'll talk to Mr. CD (who's out of town right now) and let you know." Just enough to keep me hanging on.

And if I get the interview or the invitation to send writing samples, I don't know what I'll do. Fuck! I'm so unprepared, yet unwilling to prepare my shit while I still have the time.

Welcome to Procrastination-ville, population ME. Enjoy your stay, although be forewarned, the air is thick with self-doubt and gratuitous laziness.

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I'm tired of browsing through my favorite blogs and then stumbling upon politically infused ramblings. They're boring.

You'll never know who I favor because the truth is I don't favor anyone. Yeah, I'm a lazy American -- I'm not voting, nor am I blogging about my most likely mal-informed opinions -- but whatever. I can't wait until this dang election is over and the blogosphere can get back to normal. There are more interesting things to talk about. Like sex. And farts. And poop. And cats and music and day-to-day observations that make you go whatthefuck. Because I'll bet that a helluva lot more people know more about those particular subjects and have the potential to make interesting blog posts on them.

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Know what else I'm tired of? Moving boxes and boxes of promotional movie material for shipment. That shit is tiring, and quite frankly I don't think I'm the best person to do this job. Oh, okay, that's the distraction talking. I'm just ready to get paid for using my brain, not my muscles. Ha! Yeah, but seriously, I'm not strong enough to lift 40 lbs. That seems to be my limit. Unless I've had a steak lunch and am feeling extra testosteroney.

But...it is kind of nice to go to lunch and then have a nice little workout to burn off the calories. Oh shit, the promo closet's a mess, better move some boxes! Let's send some stuff out like now! It's the reason I can get away with not working out and staying a size 2 (with love handles, mind you) these days.

I'm not a meat-head.

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My new job manifesto:

1. In my new job, I will be able to wear whatever I want. And by that I mean jeans, a Sonic Youth t-shirt and Vans. Every day.
2. I will not be in a position to be yelled at. I want just enough responsibility to feel like a vital part of the ad campaign, but not so much that I get yelled at. There needs to be a filter of some sort by way of a creative director or account executive. Ideally, I'd be the creative force behind a genius campaign, and the quiet copywriter in the shadows when things go awry.
3. I will be accepted for who I am, moodiness and all. Or not. I just want to be in an environment in which the other creative sorts enjoy my company when I'm on, and leave me alone (no questions) when I'm off.
4. I want to be comfortable enough with the creative team to invite them to my shows, whenever that happens.
5. I will be paid more than $30,000 annually. It's incomprehensible that someone with five years of work experience is working in Dallas and making less than that. It happens, people.

(Negotiable)
6. I will be in a position to show my work at Cannes, the Addys or any kind of competitive realm.
7. My new agency will have a gaming system and/or pool table.
8. My art director will be my artistic soul mate. And by that I mean likes 60% of the bands I name, smokes and is a gay man who is not at all bitchy (except for in the totally right ways) and will people-watch with me on lunch breaks.
9. Minimal contact with the CEO, unless of course, they are totally cool, but that is a long shot.
10. Kick-ass vacation time after three months on the job. Like, two weeks a year. Sad, but that's my idea of good vacay time.

(Not gonna happen, but it's nice to dream)
11. I will not be made uncomfortable because I am a woman. Most likely my team will be made up of mostly men, and the fact that I'm unmarried, living with a guy, AND can lift up to 40 lbs will throw them off, but I dream of an environment in which they accept me as a dude, and abstain from discussing totally gross subject matter because that's just not gentlemanly.
12. I will not bitch when I get put on soft campaigns like Kotex or cleaning products. You know, because I'm a woman.
13. There will be Tequila Thursdays, followed by Freudian Fridays, which of course will be held at the nearest dive bar, and everyone's free to go at 1 PM.
14. A monthly meeting at Dallas Museum of Art is in order. You know, to remind us of what "real art" is.
15. I can manage their company blog. I already manage the blog at my current company. My lack of contribution should be indicative of how dedicated a citizen I am to Procrastination-ville.

Population ME.

You can stay as long as you like. But it's nearly impossible to leave. *

* Eagles reference. Must site this, as you will think I'm a douche if I don't.

Crank

2008-10-23T12:03:00.002-05:00

I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky, I'm cranky.

[Wow, I think this is my first time blogging from work.]

Here's what's been going on in a brief, totally un-original bulleted list:

- Last week my friend told me that there's a copywriting opening at her company. I've wanted to work there since I moved to Dallas, and now there's a position I want there, and I'm so freaking scared and nervous because it's been a week and a half and I haven't heard shit. So now my brain is rotting with thoughts of "my resume sucks" and "you have shitty writing samples," and "you'll never make it..." Healthy, huh?

- Yesterday I wore a penguin suit for three hours to film a promo bit for work. It was surprisingly fun, and now my shoulders are sore.

- Speaking of sore, I have recently started working out again. I just can't handle the fact that I'm the only size 2 I know with "love handles."

- The only thing that is inspiring me these days is music. Good thing, ey? My lessons are going well, and playing music is the only thing I want to do all day every day. Maybe those eight months after graduation with no job, no money, no life, only me, Matt and my guitar weren't so bad afterall.

Gah, I hate today so far.

If you went to a dry wedding, you'd listen to awesome music, too

2008-09-21T02:45:00.005-05:00

Oh my GAWD, did I really live this long and am now just discovering Patti Smith? I am definitely not punk rock.

Okay, I lie. I HAVE heard, "Because the Night," but I never really liked that song. It wasn't until I looked her up on YouTube that I really began to APPRECIATE her.

Not much of a voice, but what she lacks in voice, she more than makes up in her general awesomeness. So mannish, so skinny, so...I don't know...off. The first video I looked up was "Gloria," and it mirrored so many of my issues with the uber-Christianization of the U.S., not to mention I live in Dallas, the fucking Bible Belt of Bible Belts.

Oh, so you didn't know Dallas was like that? Well let me tell ya.

On the surface, Dallas is a progressive city. It's touted for its big-city amenities: restaurants, culture, large-market appeal; but to me it's a small town, checkered largely by even smaller minds.

Punk rock doesn't live here. Maybe in Denton, but not here.

For one thing, in the two offices I've worked at in Dallas, everybody is Christian. And not Catholic. I mean, Christian. Like they love Christ, but it doesn't stop there. They want YOU to love Christ, too. And they look at you weird if you don't show an inclination toward their way of thinking.

I went to a co-worker's wedding not too long ago. The reception was held at the church where the service was due to some issue with the original location (corruption, lost deposit, etc.). Since it was at the church, there was no alcohol served, which was no surprise -- I've actually been to a dry wedding before, one where I was maid of honor -- so Matt and I were leaving when he stopped to use the men's room.

The place reminded me of a school -- the reception was in a gym of sorts, and there were fliers and banners up everywhere, not to mention offices that made me cringe, as if I was going to be sitting in one of those offices if I was caught without a hall pass or something.

So Matt gets out of the restroom, and he calls my attention to something. It was a glass kiosk with all kinds of banners and announcements. On the wall facing the restroom, away from passersby, was a flier with giant letters, "Pornography attacks Christian families!"

Okay, so pornography is somewhat unpure. I give it that. But that's for consenting adults to decide. Plus, it's not like it's in front of our eyeballs everywhere we go. It's not like the dang presidential election or the terrifyingly unstable stock market or something. But whatever. It's porn. Does it really attack people? And Christian families in particular?

I look at the flier, say it's fucked up, and then I look at the paper right underneath it. It's this elaborate article explaining this incident in which porn was made to look like the bad guy and some poor innocent kid was the victim of this terrible, terrible thing called pornography. The words are not quite clear to me, but that was the gist...

And then there was this third piece of paper under the article, with letters just as big as the first one: "Tolerance is the enemy of righteousness." What. The. Fuck.

Matt and I couldn't have gotten out of there faster. It's like the devil was there. This shit is not Christian. It's crazy.

Really? Tolerance is the enemy of righteousness? Really??? Isn't Christianity rooted in tolerance? Like, love thy neighbor and stuff?

Not like this sort of psycho-fuckery defines an entire city, but I keep running into this sort of thing. Like if show any kind of deviance from the totally straight-laced way of thinking, I'm a weirdo and totally excused as "not one of us." It's a strange, strange, cliquish city, this is. I wanna say, "oh, by the way, I have pre-marital sex, live in sin, and have brown hair, and oh yeah, also I'm half Mexican, but shhhhh! because I know you have to whisper that word like you whisper the word, 'black,' or 'African American.'"

Ugh. I tolerate this mentality at best. Because I kind of like living here at the moment. But I guess that means I will never be "righteous." And that's fine by me.

Wanna know my favorite songs right now? I know you do.

Wilco - I am Trying to Break Your Heart
MGMT - Time to Pretend
Duffy - Warwick Avenue
Duffy - Syrup and Honey
The Kills - Sour Cherry
Vampire Weekend - A-Punk
Vampire Weekend - Bryn
Delta Spirit - People Turn Around
Brazilian Girls - Pussy
Cafe Tacuba - Esa Noche
Devendra Barnhart - Carmensita
Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine

If you were to google or YouTube anything, do Pussy by Brazilian Girls because that song truly kicks ass.

Okay, good night, kids.

Off the wagon

2008-08-07T18:36:00.004-05:00

We knew this wasn't going to last. I made it three nights. On the fourth night, Wednesday, I caved and went to our favorite watering hole. Peer presh-ah's a bitch.

I really didn't take into consideration how my little experiment would affect my social life.

Now I don't know if this is addiction or just plain habit, but on night one, all I thought about was having a glass of wine. Just one little glass of wine, I told myself. But then the thoughts faded, and I went about my evening. Welch's grape juice is a suitable alternative.

On night two -- Monday night -- I kind of flirted with the thought again, but abstained. Then it was 10 PM, and there were no more thoughts of wine.

And I can't tell you how rested I felt during this experiment. Mr. GQ was right -- you think more clearly, feel an overall sense of well-being, and although I didn't suddenly kick ass at my job or anything, I just felt better during the day. More alert, more smarter. Heh. Me talk pretty.

Then it was Wednesday. I was reluctant to go out, but fuck, I missed my friends. They caught me in a moment of weakness. I was feeling particularly nostalgic for the universal brooding, celebrating, just existing that is the happy hour with friends at the watering hole.

The sad part is I don't really remember that night. It was only a week ago! And it's not like I went crazy, but we've had so many of those happy hours at the watering hole that they all just kind of blur into one memory -- the people, the atmosphere, the brooding, celebrating, existing...

I have much more to talk about than drinking.

I went on my one and only vacation a few weeks ago. Some family from Mexico was coming to visit my mom, and it happily coincided with my dad's birthday, so I went to the hometown for four nights.

I was traveling sans boyfriend, which was disappointing, but he had a good reason. Well, good enough for me anyway. Work. Ugh. Fucking work. Work is the mistress that calls in the middle of the night to steal you away from your happy home life to just have a coffee and a chat, but then you find yourself knee-deep in this complicated push-pull situation -- and the only thing that keeps you from breaking it off is the promise of a better life. Money, new lips, it's all the same damn thing to me.

[Just to be clear, I am strictly talking about work here. Don't go feeling all sorry for me that my mans is cheating on me here. ]

Anyway, my trip. It was extraordinary to see my family. I was almost glad I went without Matt because if he'd come, I wouldn't have gotten so much alone time with my folks to just be me. I had two very good conversations with my parents (separately, since they are divorced), which resulted in a much happier, fulfilled, complete me. And that feeling carries on.

I am lucky, lucky, lucky to be the daughter of two very understanding and cool people who just happen to get me.

Enough of the sap. Let's get to the fun stuff I wanted to tell you about.

For one thing, I went sailing for the first time. In a bad-ass muther of a boat.

My mom is dating her soul mate. And by soul mate, I mean a man who likes to cook, eat, drink, have fun, and go sailing. And he has the money to do all that. Her life right now is an endless party. As it should be -- she's a teacher, so gets to actually enjoy her summer. Her summer by the coast. Her summer in a boat. Errrr...hello jealousy...

My aunt, uncle, cousin, cousin's wife, mom, mom's boyfriend, and I enjoyed a full day on this muther of a boat (oh, and if you're questioning how "muther" this boat is, well, it's not ALL that, but it's the first one I've been on that has two bedrooms and bathrooms, so that counts as "muther," right?). I'm the only one on this boat a.) without a mate (story of my life), and b.) who's in dire need of a tan (being the only one there who's not 100% Mexican...damn you, pasty genetics!). So I do the retardedest thing possible and say "screw you, sun block, I don't need you!"

But I notice all my olive-skinned friends slathering themselves with SPF 45 and it dawned on me that maybe it WAS a good idea to protect myself a little bit. So about three hours into the trip, I indulged in some sun block.

After a full day of seeing dolphins, enjoying my family's company, and my mom's boyfriend's super nautical skills, I started to feel a little...hot. And not in the good way.

My arms, back, chest, legs -- all the bits of me that were exposed -- were baked. I hadn't been this burnt in I don't know how long. And what worried me most was the thought of blistering like the true gringa I really am.

Luckily I didn't blister. In fact, the tan is nice. It's my evidence of a nice summer.

But here's what I really want to tell you about. The point of all this rambling...

I had a debut of sorts.

On my last night in Brownsville, my dad, brother and I were invited to a private birthday party at the local bar. Now there are really only four tolerable bars in Brownsville. This is the bar to go to if you feel like running into everyone you went to high school with, and be comfortable with your dad saying 'hi' to all sorts of young ones, and most of all be comfortable going on stage to sing a few songs.

I've had many a good time in this bar. One of them being New Year's a couple of years ago, singing "Caress Me Down" by Sublime and ending up at the owner's house in the wee hours of the morning playing drinking games with half of Brownsville there. Yeah, I'm from a small town...

My brother -- in his glory days with his old band -- used to play twice a week at this bar, and always packed the house with the same young ones my dad is MySpace friends with. Heh. My dad's a special one, he is...

Anyway. so I'm sitting with my dad at this party while my brother guests with another band. Some dudes I know from my UT-Brownsville days. 30-year-old men who never quite left home. Eddie (brother) invites me on stage, which I expected, and I sing "Bad Fish" (I heart Sublime, if you can't tell). The song ends and they are literally asking for more. It's a rock star's wet dream. Only, I'm not a rock star. I'm mostly embarrassed at that point and wondering what to do next.

Eddie suggests "Me and Bobby McGhee." My signature song. Oy. Only the bassist doesn't know it (it's only three chords, dude!), so Eddie hands me his guitar and I played it. That's the debut I'm talking about. The debut I didn't expect to make.

So I'm up there, playing and singing a song I know really, really well and people are fucking singing along and cheering. I'm not the kind to really get off on that, but it was exhilirating. To know I can do this sort of thing -- play my song for people and not fuck up and most importantly NOT BE NERVOUS.

I was completely at ease, for the first time ever. I've played music for bigger audiences, but always felt that sick feeling -- it's masochistic in a way, wanting to play for people, but always feeling mortified two seconds before and during. But this one was different. Maybe it's because I know the song. Maybe it's because I didn't care. I don't know, but it felt good, and my dad -- the painfully honest person he is -- gave me the best compliment he's ever given me: "For once, you weren't THAT GIRL, up there, just singing. You were actually entertaining them. There are so many female singers that just sound so shrill and annoying, but you did it, honey. You pulled it off."

It's almost embarrassing how excited I am about this. But now that I'm back in the routine of my regular, everyday Dallas life, I have this memory of my one rocker moment, and hope that it's not the last one.

A monster is born.

Guitar lessons

So I've talked about my dork guitar teacher. I ended up liking him, but only because he let me do whatever I wanted. I monopolized our lessons. I exploited his weakness as a teacher and turned him into my friend, my guitar buddy -- the dude with a baby and wife, who essentially saw our lessons (and my $110 a month) as a bud session in which we would just play what I wanted and then ended up watching YouTube videos of what I'm supposed to be playing.

Well, dork guitar teacher moved to Denver and now I'm studying with his boss, the director of the school. And. He's. Amazing.

In the personality department, he's a little iffy. A little square for my taste, but in the end, who cares about personality? He's a damn good teacher.

For one thing, he sees through my bull shit. He's not letting anything go during our lesson. He can tell how my previous teacher faltered. He can tell where I've been lazy. He can tell what I actually want to do.

When I told him about my debut, he was excited, but not impressed. He took that as a testament to what I want, but never voiced.

The truth is, I really do want to see where these lessons take me. Can I really be a 30-year-old rock star. I say 30 because that's my cut off age. If I'm not playing gigs by the age of 30, then I should just give it up. Well, not really. But 30 really is a bit old to have that dream, you know?

I'm two and a half years away from my goal. I won't "let the dream die," as Tenacious D says. But I will use the impending 30 as my goal to do what I feel I NEED to do.

With my brother living in Dallas, that might just be possible. I just need a couple of good hookey days to just hunker down and record and make magic.

Magic, I tells ya.

The new guitar teacher now tells me about his glory days in the bar. As if he's teaching me something. As if he's guiding me somewhere. Who knew? This square guy encouraging the 30-year-old rock star dream.

I'll take it.

I've rambled long enough. Now you know everything.

O hi, shallow much?

2008-07-28T17:25:00.005-05:00

I have given up alcohol for one week. That's seven nights.

I'm on Night 2.

On Friday night, I read a small piece in GQ about a 27-year-old single working guy who'd decided to try this little experiment to see how large a part alcohol really plays in his everyday life. His experiment was 10 days and at the end of those 10 days, he found that he thought more clearly, his skin improved (especially around the eyes), and he slept better at night. Maybe he slept better because his conscience was clear of whatever stupid things he might have said or done while inebriated the night before...

And you know what convinced me to do it? Not the promise of a better night's sleep or work performance. I mean, who gives a shit about health? Not me, apparently.

I want to do this because I want my skin to look better.

And there's nothing really wrong with my skin the way it is. But it could look better, I guess.

I'll let you know on Sunday morning.

Vargo, Art, and Polka Fest

2008-05-26T18:02:00.006-05:00

I used to know this girl named Vargo in college. She was a friend of a friend and the thing I remember most about her is that she was awkwardly tall and goofy for a sorority girl. Also, her name was Vargo.

That name makes me giggle because it sounds like verga, the Spanish word for dick.

---------------------------

I've just spent the last two hours looking at posters online. Good times. Matt and I have been in major spring cleaning mode, which also kind of spills into spring upgrades mode. A couple of weeks ago, we spent an entire day making use of the movie posters I bring home from work and mounting them on poster board. I can now look at a deliciously evil Johnny Depp as Sweeney Todd (or Sweeney Tizzod, as the interns used to say) all day if I want to. And I do.

I didn't buy any posters because I get kind of funny about buying things online. It's like "really? I can buy this? And that?" It's like a world in which money doesn't exist -- you just punch numbers into your compu and that's it. All of a sudden you've got Matisse's Fleur in your possession, when you could've easily traced it yourself. Fo' free, too.

All this art stuff reminds me of when I used to draw and paint. What the hell happened to that? I guess it got hard. But I used to really enjoy sketching and playing with my watercolors, especially when I finished after a good three or four hours of deep concentration.

I gave away my best painting to a boy who didn't deserve it. I thought he deserved it at the time -- ahem, high school boyfriend! -- but now I realize that that might be the best thing I ever painted. And I can never have it back.

It was a simple watercolor of a garden leading up to an entrance of a building. It was my favorite because of the fun I had selecting the colors of the flowers and blotting the brush down everytime I wanted a flower. And oh were there many! Now that I think of it, it's probably not very good, simply because all the flowers were just little brush blots in pink, purple and blue, but when I was finished with it, I thought it was pretty. I hope the high school ex-boyfriend thinks so, too. No I don't. Yeah, I do.

-----------------------------

So Polka Festival...

It. fucking. ruled.

When Matt and I made the trek down to Ennis -- almost an hour's drive from our apartment -- we rode in almost complete silence. It's like we were kind of sharing the "I don't know about this, but we can't turn back" vibe. When we drove up, we saw this big mega-church-looking center with nowhere to park.

Still unsure, we walked up hand in hand, and saw a blonde girl of about 17 wearing short shorts and cowboy boots talking on her (or her pimp's) cell phone. We walked in and saw what seemed like a big Czech wedding with no bride and groom. The Dallas Czech Orchestra was playing while we searched for some seats in the sea of long cafeteria-style tables and plastic chairs.

We sat alone at our table by the restrooms with a great view of the goings-on. Old people, young people (some in traditional Czech costumes), mothers and children danced to classical polka tunes. We were most impressed by the kids dancing so gracefully. It was like watching Mexican kids who know how to salsa because their moms taught them. Only they weren't Mexican. And the music was...polka.

I must have underestimated the Czech people. I thought of them as white. Europeans who found themselves in the U.S., like all the other white people with European roots. When Matt and I sat down to eat, we sat with this old couple who told us they were brought up speaking Czech until they went to grade school, and kept referring to non-Czechs as "white people." That killed me. Here I thought only my peeps and blacks called non-raza "white people."

Another discovery that made me go, "oooo-wee!" A bar. With smoking. A bar with smoking in a Catholic Union center. That's right.

Let's get back to the dancing. I love to dance. I don't care how bad I am at it, I always think I'm good for at least one try and am willing to dance wherever I am. Even if it is to unfamiliar music like polka. It's like Tejano music anyway, and if you know anything about kids from the Texas-Mexico border, we've gone to our share of Quinceañeras and weddings were Tejano music is all that's played.

But there's one problem that keeps me from dancing: Matt won't dance.

He's not one of those assholes that knows how to dance, except he won't. No, he just doesn't dance. He doesn't know how. I've had a hard time accepting this in our eight years together -- many a wedding, I've spent making faces at him while watching the happy couples on the dance floor.

I've tried leading him. I've tried coaching him two seconds before going to the dance floor. I've tried getting him drunk. I've tried asking other men to dance with me (but that can just lead to trouble). Always the same result.

I refuse to be one of those women who just sits it out because her partner won't dance. So we're doing the dorkiest thing I've ever heard of and it pains me to even aknowledge it here, but we're signing up for dance lessons. Yes. We are.

Before you start muttering to yourself, "man, Tanya's lost it. Poor Matt, having to take dance lessons..." just shut up your brain for a second! It was his suggestion. I don't think it's really because he wants to learn how to dance for the love of the art. No. I really think it's because he knows that will make me happy. And for that, he is the man.

Here are a couple of pictures of our little polka excursion:

That's right. I wore polka dots to this thing. I told you I would.

This has been an excellent weekend. The extra day off was a nice touch. Thank you, no-work holiday makers of the U.S.

Peace,
D

Polka Fest

2008-05-25T13:16:00.003-05:00

Ohmigod-ohmigod-ohmigod...

Matt's taking me to the National Polka Festival today!

This should be either really fun or really um, FUN!

Since I don't have any traditional Czech costumes, I'm wearing my polka-dot dress to show my polka spirit.

I've said "polka" more times in this post than you might have wanted.

Polka.

My Not-Space

2008-05-22T18:54:00.005-05:00

"The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world. In this long vigil he often has to vary his methods of stimulation; but in this long vigil he is also himself striving against a continual tendency to sleep." ~ Marc Chagall

-------------------------

I was poking around in MySpace and thought I'd check in on my niece, who is about to turn 18. Like many kids of our siblings, she seems so much younger than me, even though I'm closer to her age than my own sister's.

She's a precocious one, this little niece of mine. She posts random bulletins about "Fuck this shit" and "I'm so tired of being single," etc. She calls all her friends her "niggas" and is pro-life and loves her best friend, Saggy.

This sums up what I know about Tiffany.

In my ongoing state -- one of girl-lonelieness -- I find myself wanting to reach out to the few women/girls in my life. Tiffany is one of those girls.

Perhaps it's because I was never close to her mother, my sister. My sister is my father's daughter from his first marriage, and she is now 40. I saw her a few times growing up, and maybe twice in the last 10 years. There is no reason for us to not be close, except for the fact that we aren't close. She lives in Nashville, I've always lived in Texas. Even if I was in Nashville, I don't think I'd be lying if I said I'd go out of my way to spend time with her.

Tiffany represents that "lost sister." My only successful sibling relationship is the one I have with my younger brother, who is my best friend. The only kind of sister I know how to be is an older sister.

Tiffany will never be my sister. She'll never really be my niece. It's too late for that. The best I can hope for is a cousin-type of friendship with her, marbled with my nerdy, idiosyncratic comments on her MySpace page about how her hair looks nice in this picture or that.

On top of that, her settings don't post comments automatically. They have to be "approved." So if a photo comment from her 27-year-old aunt is too nerdy, she might just deny it.

That's the reality of MySpace.

Quiet

2008-05-18T12:31:00.003-05:00

At the cyber water cooler:
- Ashlee Simpson got married.
- Jenna Bush got married.
- Ellen DeGeneres is getting married.

My home is quiet for once. It's 12:30 on a Sunday afternoon and two of the three boys living in my apartment are upstairs sleeping. The other -- my brother -- is in Austin making his first steps to moving there. His move-in date at his new apartment is July 1. By that time, he will have been living on my couch for close to nine weeks.

Nine weeks.

So you see why this quiet home is kind of like a precious, precious jewel. I have the computer to myself, the TV, the freedom to bumble around, sit in my own dirt, or wash dishes without anyone getting in the way or talking to me. It's not that I don't like company, but damn, a sister's gotta have some alone time.

I need a second cup of coffee. But I'm afraid to get up from the computer and find a boy sitting here when I get back.

We need a second computer.

Work and guitar lesson update

2008-04-09T23:03:00.004-05:00

After such a wretched Friday yelling at work, I had a lovely weekend in which I recorded music with my little brother-the-genius, did laundry and watched TV with my lovely Matt. I saw "There Will Be Blood" and um yeah. Fucking ruled. I know a movie's good when I keep thinking about it the next day or want to talk about it with whoever's willing to listen. "No Country..." can suck my balls. Blood should've won best picture.

Anyway, what you really want to hear about is how my guitar lessons are going, right?

I had my third guitar lesson today. I practiced my two songs he assigned me all this weekend, and for the first time I had FUN at my lesson.

There was no worry of judgment over my gig bag smelling like weed, and I was finally comfortable playing in front of him. I felt comfortable being myself around him. And by "myself," I mean saying "shit" and "damn" when I messed up at the guitar. His instruction was professional, but also friendly, to which I responded positively, with "cool" and "yeah, that's a good idea."

I think the first two lessons were a trial period in which we were just figuring each other out. He's actually just a nice guy who has a nine-month-old baby and likes guitar. And I think I actually learned some things from him today. Like what a D9 chord is. Didn't know that before. Thanks, guitar dude.

Still thinking about that Mexico vacation. I may just take a pre-vacation weekend vacation to the hometown -- where the food is good and the people are nice.

It's time for a vacay

2008-04-04T18:05:00.005-06:00

I yelled at my co-worker today. And it felt good.

Who am I?

For the record, the bitch deserved it. And I should really go about my Friday. But I still feel...dirty.

I hate confrontation. But dammit, stress levels were high and I couldn't take the accusations anymore. "Why aren't you doing this? Why didn't you do that? Why don't you care?" I'd had enough. So I defended myself. I mean, when someone accuses you of not caring about your job, you have to fucking say something.

So I did. And it felt good. I already said that.

In other news, I started taking guitar lessons. I've taken many a photo with my beloved guitar, but never have I taken a lesson. Until a few weeks ago.

So far I think my teacher is kind of a wrong match for me. I wanted a gruff old man who'd whip my ass into rock star shape, but instead I got a 31-year-old dude who wears ties and likes "Stairway to Heaven." He winced when I made a face and said my brother's gig bag that I borrowed smells like weed.

Yeah. I don't know about this one. If a guitar dude makes faces at weed, then he's not a real guitarist.

I don't smoke weed. I don't like the way it makes me feel. I'm not against it, but if it's around, I just say no. It might make me sound like a dweeb, but that's just how I feel about it. I don't judge those who do it. In fact, I wish I liked weed. It looks like people really enjoy it. But my body makeup just doesn't agree with it. I get paranoid, feel out of control, feel stupid, slow. I'll stick to booze, thank you very much. At least I know what I'm getting out of that.

In other news, my good friend Liberty just had her first baby. Very good news as this is a new little being who is born to some fine people with high IQs and much talent. She and her husband are some of the most loving and genuine people I've ever known and I am happy that they put that together and produced a "mini them."

-------------------------------------------

It just occured to me that I need a vacation. I was off for 11 days during Christmas break, but I need a true, "fuck-you-boss-I'm-taking-a-vacation-no-I-don't-care-what's-going-on" vacation. One that is not mandated by religion or wintry mixes. I've given up on the fact that one of my Mexican cousins is having a summer wedding this year, so I'll have to make this vacation totally my own.

If I so choose to take this break from life as I know it, I'd choose Puebla and Cordoba, Mexico -- places that make me happy -- and stay with my family two days. I'd spend the rest of the time in a four-star hotel with my lovely Matt, and rent a car, and do it right.

Not that I haven't done it right in the past. But every time I've gone to Mexico, I've gone with my mom, and have done everything her way. And if not her way, then my aunt's way, or my uncle's way...any way but my own. I work dammit, and in recent years when I've gone, it seems like such a struggle to do things my way, even though I'm paying for it the whole time. Plus, in our eight years together, Matt and I have never taken a real vacation together.

Sure, we've traveled. We've gone to Virginia to visit his parents -- couldn't sleep together because his parents are Nazis, I mean Catholics -- , to San Marcos when we were checking out the school (which we ultimately went to and from which we graduated), to New York (recently, and just for the weekend...which was freaking awesome, by the way)... But never have we taken that VACATION. You know, the one that couples take when they have two weeks accrued at work, and they go to some silly place like Jamaica, or Italy, or a cruise to Cozumel and come back with even sillier pictures of themselves with strained, nervous faces as a stranger takes their picture or of themselves taking the cliché, off-focus, one-armed MySpace pic. I kind of want that supercilious, totally unnecessary vacation. With my man. And no moms, aunts or uncles telling us what to do.

Work bitch is far away now. She's gone. There's no Monday.

Fancy that. If only a day dream about a vacation could take your problems away like that...

The Intern

2008-04-01T20:25:00.002-06:00

When I first started my job, my department hired a slew of lazy boy interns. They were useless at first and all they seemed to do was pretend to be excited about the menial jobs they were given, but deep down I was just waiting for them to discard the excited face and just be themselves.

They eventually shedded the new-hire happy face and became themselves -- fun-loving, immature pricks! Which I loved. And they proved to be pretty handy around the office. They didn't need much direction and were great for heavy lifting. We get a lot of shipments.

Now they're gone and we have these two new girls working for us. They're best friends, but they're never in the office at the same time. The one I want to talk about I will call "Stinky," because she is truly one stinky little girl.

She's 19. She's from Utah. She's Mormon (not that there's anything wrong with it!). She wears the same pants every day: you know the kind...tight khaki pants and NO THONG! I see panty lines all day with this one.

But what makes her stinky is her dang shoes. She wears these sandals and has this charming habit of coming into my office and sliding her shoes on and off, creating this thick aura of cheesy stench. It's revolting. So she is "stinky girl."

I suppose my disdain for her comes from a deeper place than just her offensive smell. She's slow. She's lazy. She doesn't do heavy lifting. Rather, I feel bad making her lift things when I can do it myself. And I can see her dang panty line the whole time. Like, what do you have against thongs?

Today she came into the office sporting a new piece of jewelry. An engagement ring. And it's beautful. It's what I would want now, at 19 and tomorrow.

My disdain for her grows. I miss the boy interns.

Lunch

2008-03-28T16:15:00.002-06:00

I ate a cheeseburger for lunch today and it was delicious even though there was no ketchup. The end.

Strange dream

2008-03-15T10:43:00.003-06:00

I had a weird dream last night.

I dreamt that I was in Mexico with my family and everyone was out for some reason and I got bored and just left without my purse -- no wallet, ID, phone number to my aunt's house, address, nothing. Just me on the streets of large, busy, confusing Puebla.

I wander away from the house and end up lost. I look back and there are forks in the roads, large buildings that all look the same, and I look forward, as if to say, "fuck it. I'll find a way."

I keep wandering, although panic is starting to kick in. I don't know how to call home, have no money to get home. Just me and the clothes off my back.

I end up at this large cathedral/old university type of building and I bust in, all dramatic, and start running through it. Like I had a mission. I end up at the back of the building, at the last room. I know where I am. In my dream, I'd read about this room -- it's where tourists from all over the world go to see the oldest living dog in the world.

I open the door and I see a Scottish peasant woman with a tattered black shawl and a kind face. She tells me, "there he is" and behind the open door I see an old poodle dog sprawled out on a bench against the wall, kind of twitching and groaning. There's a man kind of squatting against the wall opposite me who says, "he's not in good shape."

The dog is eating one of his front legs and slowly his face turns into the face of an old hippie man, with long dirty blonde hair and no teeth. I thought of the news story that lead me to this place: about a man who many years ago had decided to live as a pet and this kind Scottish couple took him in and took up a residence in a modest room in this nameless old cathedral building. I thank them and leave. Then I woke up.

I am a Vampire

2008-02-28T22:10:00.003-06:00

I must be the only person alive who hasn't seen "Juno." Or "Lost." But in a fit of new music hunger, I looked up the soundtrack and listened to every single sample on Amazon and downloaded my favorites. Which I think were all of them. One in particular, is "I am a Vampire" and it's stuck in my head. Thanks a lot, Kimya Dawson. No really. Thanks. The music is rad.

Valentine's Day was strange, memorable one this year. I got to work at 6:30 AM because it was review day for a movie I was working on, and it was particularly rough because I'd been drinking the night before. I hate it when I do that. I spend an evening doing whatever I want because dammit, I'm entitled, have another drink, make jokes, laugh with everyone, have another drink, then two more, then it's time to go to sleep, and suddenly it's 5 AM and I'm still drunk and my face is poofy and just dragging my ass out of bed and into my work clothes is a monumental feat.

The morning came and went as usual. I flipped off my bitchy co-workers from the safety of my cubicle. I really hate those imbeciles sometimes. Then it was lunch time and got a little upset that Matt didn't invite me out to a Valentine's lunch, so I drove around, smoked a cigarette, picked up a sandwich at the little cafe downstairs and ate in my cube.

By 3:30, I should have already left. But I still had a lot of work to do, so I stayed until about 6:30, at which point I'd been at work about 12 hours. In an exhausted delirium, I finally gave up and went home. I was so tired I could hardly drive.

Matt was just getting home when I got there. I still wanted to save what was left of the day and have a nice Valentine's dinner, but at 7:15, I could feel the whole city buzzing with people like us trying to find a good place to eat with their Valentines. I became increasingly upset at the idea of having to fight the other couples on the street and wait an hour to get seated at a busy second/third/fourth-choice restaurant. And the idea of eating at Chili's or Applebee's just made me want to cry.

Then, Matt made a genius suggestion. "Let's take a nap."

We laid down in our dark room, held hands as we fell asleep and it was the most calm I'd felt all week.

We woke up five hours later, feeling 100% better, picked up some Burger King, and ate our Valentine's Day dinner in the comfort of our living room, while watching South Park.

It was the perfect end to a really bad day.

No country for grown-ups

2008-01-13T20:53:00.000-06:00

In the past week...

- An old woman with long silver hair - wife of a movie critic - chatted me up while I guarded press rows from the beasts that are the public. We were at a screening of The Bucket List and I usually kind of loathe this part of my job because I have to chat with writers and their spouses, while pretending that I don't hear people from the general public saying, "this row's fucking RESERVED!" Sometimes, when I'm in the mood, I yell at people who try to sneak into the press rows by saying, "that pole is there for a REASON!" or "this is for press! Let me see your card!"

It's a nice way to let off pent-up steam from the work week.

Anyway, the silver-haired woman told me, "I'm going to say something to you and I hope you don't get offended." I said, "Okay." She proceeded to tell me that she thought I looked "awfully young" and that she thinks I'm still in high school. I laughed probably more than I should and said, "I'm older than you think. I'm 26."

That kind of comment would have offended me when I was 20 and trying to look old enough to buy beer, but now? Never. It made my week.

In other news:

- I wrote a song. It's the first song I've written since I was 13. But that one didn't count. So this counts as the FIRST song I've ever written. And like all people who make things out of their bare brains, I think it sucks.

Since I am in a stable relationship that only breeds silly arguments about finances and dinner, the only source I have for love-type angst is my first love from long, long ago.

When we first got together, I was 13 and he was 16. I met him on one of my annual family trips to Mexico and he had curly black hair and wore Eternity cologne. It was such an angsty time in my life -- my parents were in the middle of a divorce, my dad was depressed and was pawning family heirlooms for spare cash, and on top of all that I was skinny and awkward and no matter how much positive reinforcement was laid on me (possibly as a result of my parents overcompensating for guilt of the divorce), I always felt retarded and un-cute.

A summer love couldn't have come at a better time. We spent 3 weeks telling each other wonderful things, promising each other the stars, listening to music, and making out whenever the circumstances allowed. When I came back home, he called every week, sent me packages and came to visit twice -- once in August and once in December.

One could say it was much too intense for a 13-year-old, but that's the kind of 13-year-old I was. And the story doesn't end there.

We spent a year writing to each other, promising each other the world, etc. The following summer we broke up and I dated my cousin's friend Alonso, who was five years older than me and a killer kisser. When I came home, he wrote me one letter, I never responded and then it was done. I heard from my cousin that he now has two kids.

Then I went to high school and got myself an American boyfriend my own age. Blah, blah, blah, we fought, we lost our virginity to each other, it was mad love for four years, but there was one summer when we broke up and we were free of each other. The original Mexican boyfriend, Sergio, called me all summer inviting me (through my mother) to go to his high school graduation. My mother, who always wanted me to be with him anyway, encouraged me to go to Mexico for a week and go to his graduation. So I went. I was 16 at the time.

This week has provided me with a lifetime of material.

This week was the inspiration for my post-graduation novel, which I never finished.

I'll tell you about it here. I arrived at the Mexico City airport where he was supposed to pick me up. I didn't see him, and had no idea how to travel by myself -- including how to make a phone call on the Mexican pay phones. That's where I learned that they use pre-paid cards instead of coins. I finally found him and we drove an hour and a half to Tlaxcala, where he lived.

His house was a beautiful split-level on three floors. It was cold, even though it was summer, and I was aggressively warned by his three sisters and mother to wear a sweater at all times. They made such a fuss over food -- they made hamburgers when I got there and made sure to exclude all salsa and anything else that was otherwise "spicy."

Sergio took me to his room, where he said I could leave my things and take a nap. He told me he had a surprise for when I woke up. (He was all about the surprises.) I took a three-hour nap and the surprise was that we were going out.

We went to the downtown square, which was charming and quaint. We had drinks at an outdoor cafe and he waxed philosphical about how life is like a box of matches, "you can light one at a time and have a small light, or you can light all of them at once and have a furious light." He said, "the problem with lighting them all at once is that the light goes out quickly...as quickly as the single match you lit." It's funny now that I think of it.

Then there was the question of us sleeping in the same room. My stuff was in his room. And that's where he slept. So we played the song and dance of, "no I'll sleep in the other room...out of respect for you..." and "no, it's okay...I don't mind...I mean...I'm in a strange country and it's better if you're near me..." Heh. I was a tricksy little girl for my time.

Nothing happened for four nights. It was the first time I'd ever shared a bed with another man. And it felt quite normal. One of those nights we woke up at the same time in the middle of the night and kissed once and fell back asleep. It was like a dream. But then there was the last night I was there.

We had gone out to a local guitar-player-in-the-dark-corner kind of bar and I drank Bailey's. I got so drunk I fell asleep in the bathroom for 15 minutes. When I came back to the table he said let's go. When we drove back to the house, Michael Bolton's "When a Man Loves a Woman" was on the radio and we sang it at the top of our lungs. Such dorks, I know. But we were in love. And drunk.

We got back to the house and I was wearing these ridiculous platform shoes. I took one off, and went up the stairs to his room. Surely I woke his mom up because moms totally wake up more often than dads. We settled in his room, made out clumsily, and before I knew it I was in his bed. He said he'd be back -- he was going to his dad's office downstairs (he was a doctor) -- and came back with a condom. So romantico.

So what happened that night needs no explanation except for that I felt full-on love the next morning -- nothing in comparison to my stupid high school love with the boy with whom I was to spend the next two years fighting and ultimately resenting.

Sergio and I spent the next morning joking around, kissing, quoting "The Little Prince" by Antoine de San-Exupery. I told him "tu me has domesticado" to which he responded with a kiss.

That day I went back home and I cried on the shuttle to the plane. I was the beautiful, painful vision of young tormented love.

When I got home, I was in full Mexico mode. I kissed everyone I met on the cheek. I spoke perfect Spanish, and did not want to go back to the American high school boyfriend. But alas, I did -- one night, he invited me to dinner at the Island and won me back with what could only be interpreted as an engagement ring, only he didn't ask me to marry him. He just gave me a diamond ring, a solitare 1/3 carat -- more than my current boyfriend of eight years has given me. I gave it to my mom to keep for years, until this last Thanksgiving when she was showing me her jewels and I came across it. I took it back and wear it when I want to feel nostalgic or like a boy gave me a diamond once. So very Ms. Dinsmoor in "Great Expectations," all listening to "Besame Mucho" and drinking heavily and dancing by myself.

So that's the story behind my song. I fear the song will never be played -- you know, when I was writing it, I felt these delusions of grandeur like I could be a recording artist but whatever...I promote other people's work for a living. How do I find the time to promote my own work? No, it will forever live in my computer as that first song I wrote that had to do with my first love Mexican boyfriend.

I'm showing the intensity of my 13-year-old self.

And I'm okay with that. Because I look like I'm in high school.

2007 bests

2007-12-30T13:55:00.001-06:00

Best day: It's hard to say what the best day was. Out of so many good days, including this last Christmas day (ate Denny's with family, ate leftover ham, then went to see live jazz with Matt, my brother, and my dad), I have to say it was my birthday back in March. Matt took me to San Antonio to see my brother and dad. We saw lots of nice people that weekend, including some friends we don't see nearly enough. That Friday night when we got there, Matt and I got stupid drunk at Jack's Patio with said friends. The Burden Brothers were playing and we didn't care so we hung out outside, smoked cigarettes and chatted excitedly while drinking Dos Equis until closing time. The next day I woke up with a headache and went to lunch with Aimee, Amber and Robin at a wanna-be Mexican restaurant where I felt left out of the married women's club, hardly touched my enchiladas and excused myself twice because I had the beer shits. Then we went shopping at La Cantera, where I bought some cute tops at Forever 21 and had to excuse myself a couple more times because beer sucks like that. That night my brother played at Jack's and it was round two of partying. I remember it was a weird night because a lot of the band's Brownsville groupies were there and it was like hanging out in Brownsville, but in a totally different bizarro "woo-hoo! we're out of town!" setting. I ran around, giggled a lot and took pictures in a bathroom stall with my brother's girlfriend at the time with a flask of tequila.

The next day was my real birthday and it totally didn't feel like it because it was travel day back to Dallas and I was so hungover. Matt and I stopped in a town called West and picked up some kolaches at a Czech bakery that almost made me sick. Good times. It's kind of a sad year if my best day/weekend is one in which I'm hungover and/or going to the bathroom, but the truth is that that weekend came at a time when I really needed a weekend like that and there's no substitute for a good weekend away.

Best party: That would be my friend's friend's boat party in April. I took my first beer bong, got a lot of "okay, tell me if I'm right -- you're...half German...half...Japanese?", and got in a cake fight. It was a good three and a half hours.

<----- Not me, but a good representation of the cake fight.

Best trip: That's a tough one because I went to Mexico this year, but I have to say it was the Brownsville trip in early November. It was a short weekend trip, we didn't see anyone except the people we were there to see, and went to a party hosted by none other than my grandpa.

<------- Not grandpa.

Best hug: When Matt came home from New York and he grabbed me and said, "I missed your smell." It surprised me. In a nice way.

Best elevator ride: The last time I walked out of my old office back in August.

Second best elevator ride: The next morning on my first day of my new job.

Best movie: It's a tie between "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" and "Once."

Best Christmas present: My new Ipod. Yes. I am now an Ipod person. I never thought it would come to this.

That's it. K bye.

Always a bridesmaid, never in debt

2007-12-15T20:33:00.001-06:00

I was at happy hour with some co-workers last night and we started talking about engagements and weddings. I typically hate this kind of conversation because it's pretty much the same conversation every time: "You've been with your boyfriend how long? Wow. When are you getting married?" Ugh. When we feel like it and/or when thirty grand magically drops into our laps, okay?

A snippet of my conversation with two idiots last night:

Idiot No. 1: "Wow, you've been with your boyfriend forEVER! When are you getting married?"
Not Idiot No. 1: "I don't know. Whenever we save enough money, I guess."
Idiot No. 2: "Wait. Do you share a checking account with your boyfriend?"
NI#1: "No."
I#1: "Well, I guess a ring CAN be expensive."
NI#1: "Not just the ring -- a wedding itself is expensive!"

Their blank faces and raised eyebrow glances at each other could only mean that they didn't think about the fact that I would pay for my own wedding. I'm astonished that many people I meet don't understand that some of us intend to pay for our own weddings. While I've had much help from my family throughout the years (college, the depressy-not-working aftermath), I wouldn't dream of asking anyone to shell out a bunch of money for my big party. I don't know how I'll do it when the time comes for us to get married, what with my expensive beer habit, but I'm not going to let a little debt scare me into asking the parentals to buy us a big party.

Oh, the miserable freedom of paying for your own shit.

Over November

2007-12-07T19:24:00.001-06:00

- I finished my portfolio, but haven't shown it yet. Long, boring story. To sum it up, I've been busy at work, and when I wasn't busy at work, I was paralyzed by boredom. But it's finished. And sitting in my car.
- Matt's New York trip was mostly a giant, expensive disaster, but he came back with some good stories. Celebrity sightings included Steve Carrell, Gilbert Godfrey, and (somebody restrain me) Parker Posey. They made bets with mafioso-types at the bar, lost their car for a day and a half, and played with musicians in Washington Square Park.
- I've over my bangs.
- I went to the hometown twice in November and partied with Grandpa and the crazy characters, which included the infamous Mexican lounge singer, some rich airheads from San Francisco, and my mom, who was drunk-larious and charmed everyone around her. I also ate yummy Thanksgiving, but that's not special as everyone does that and they don't blog about it, do they. DO THEY????

I'm over November. Someone get me a foozball table for Christmas.

...so rone-ree

2007-10-21T23:02:00.000-05:00

I must be out of my mind. My thermostat currently reads 82 degrees and I refuse to turn on the air conditioning. It's making these flaming hot cheetos kind of not fun to eat right now.

Since it was a brisk 54 degrees on Friday morning, I thought I'd turn off the AC and see how this cold front dictates my next electric bill. Today was a bit warmer than I'd expected, which was awesome because I laid out by the pool and chatted with my neighbor, which was (sadly) my first face-to-face conversation of the weekend, but seeing as how I've spent an entire weekend alone, I have nothing better to do than see how much I can sweat before I just cave and turn the AC on. And no one around to ruin my gnarly experiment.

All in all, it's been a strange weekend. Yesterday sucked because I kind of wanted to do something, only no one was available. I made a lovely steak dinner for one and ate it with my fingers. Then I unbuckled my pants and belched for two and a half hours.

My poolside encounter with neighbor man lead to an invitation to my other neighbor's apartment to watch the Cowboys game. I would normally say, "eh, it's okay" cause I don't like watching football and stuff, but I was in desperate need of socialization and plus, these boys are my Mexican designer friends that I haven't seen in weeks. They also had beer. I'd say today balanced out my rone-ree little weekend nicely.

The funeral dress

2007-10-20T15:57:00.001-05:00

You know what pisses me off? MySpace pages with music on them. You know what's worse? MySpace pages with Christian music on them. Look, it's not that I'm against Christ or people who believe in him, but I don't want to click on your page and have to frantically scroll for the "stop" (please...stop) button. And I definitely don't want to roll my eyes at your crappy music choice. It's like Dave Matthews to me.

My week of solitude is almost coming to an end. Matt, my brother and our have been in New York all week doing lines off of hookers and eating $16 slices of pizza. While they've been out, I've been here working my ass off and not eating right and not cleaning my apartment. And not doing other things I meant to, including working on my portfolio and playing my guitar.

Random stuff from this week:

- I conducted a screening of "Things We Lost in the Fire" and lusted after Benicio del Toro's haggard sexiness. And tried in vain to not cry.

- I also screened "Lions for Lambs" at the SMU campus, which was kind of stressful because I was in charge of the damn thing while my account executive was out entertaining the studio suit and the talent, showing up about 10 minutes before the movie ended to conduct a Q&A session with the audience. I ran around like a maniac, but when it was over, I was reluctantly pleased with myself. Mostly that I survived the event.

- The day after the SMU event, I worked the talent's PA tour at the W Hotel. I have to admit, it's kind of nice not being the one in charge because while everyone was off-site doing interviews, I hung around the hotel for an hour and a half. I loitered in the lobby area and talked to the Bolivian valet guy who quickly lost interest in talking to me once I mentioned my boyfriend, bummed a cigarette off a hairdresser from Chicago, checked out the pool area, and took off my hurty shoes and laid on the bed in our hospitality suite watching Spanish telenovelas while eating an apple.

The weather in Dallas has been ridiculous. 70 degrees and sunny -- I'm torn between wanting to go lay out by the pool in an effort to get one last tan this year and staying indoors with the windows open and wait for inspiration to come to me. I did neither today. I went to the mall and bought a funeral/work dress.

Just as women need the quintessential little black dress, we also need the funeral/work dress. This dress is like the LBD, only it's not intended to be sexy. Its purpose is to allow the hapless griever/employee to mourn/work in a most tasteful fashion without calling attention to herself. I realized this on the PA tour that my AE wears the same thing every time we work one and that I'm running out of different outfits to wear on these things. I don't necessarily care if she sees me in the same outfit every time, but it's that I would know. It's like carrying a fake Prada purse -- you know you can probably afford the real thing if you just waited a few more paychecks.

I hate to think about these things, but I also realized that I didn't have a funeral dress.

The truth is this. Okay, remember my Jewish grandpa's party? I have a feeling that he's having this party because he thinks he's gonna die soon or something. Either him or Grandma, because her memory and motor skills are declining due to Alzheimer's Disease. I haven't seen her in the last 10 months, but apparently she's forgetting people and has entirely forgotten how to cook. Also, my true grandmother (my mother's mother, the grandma in my heart, etc.) is not herself in that she's becoming increasingly confused at times and seems to pretend that she knows what you're talking about even though she doesn't.

Anyway, the idea of my loved ones dying is morbid and I don't like to think about these things because I'm afraid that if I think it, Voldemort's gonna call his best friend the grim reaper and grimly reap the person I'm thinking about. Oy!

On a lighter note, I just right now discovered the deliciosity of mixing grape juice and Topo Chico mineral water. Put these two together with two ice cubes and you've got yourself a sparkling wine. Only no buzz.

Fuck, now I'm totally bummed out.

Oh...you mean THAT kind of big girl

2007-10-04T19:11:00.000-05:00

Last week Matt and I hung out with one of his co-workers, who's from Trinidad and has quite the reputation for being a ladies' man. Matt always described him as the Trini dude who was always on the phone and whenever Matt would say "what's up," he'd say (every single time), "chiiiiillin'."

So we were chilin' one night and we got on the subject of girls he dates.

He said, "I'm startin' to get into girls with some flesh."
I said, "like how much flesh? Like that girl?" And I pointed to a large woman.
"No, not that big. You know, I want a girl with her daddy's shoulders."

Word.

The suck list and how Grandpa's not your typical grandpa

2007-09-30T19:20:00.001-05:00

Sucks to...

- Paper cuts. I currently have five.
- Running out of whiskey on a Sunday.
- Boring weekends.
- Writer's block. And that little voice in your head that tells you what a talentless sucktard you are.
- Weekends that go by too quickly.
- Having many, many channels and nothing to watch.

No sucks to...

- Elvis Costello. I wish I was Martha Plimpton's character in 200 Cigarettes and he played at my party, only I wasn't passed out and informed of said performance the next day.
- "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson. It's the song from the Old Navy commercial and I heart it because I like the way she sings "I-I-I-I-I lo-o-o-ove the way you call me baby."
- Weekends in general. No matter how quickly they go or how boring they are, they are like pizza. Always good.
- Bangs!
- Tamales.

I bought a suit this weekend. Not because I have an interview or anything, but because it was cute. I originally went to the mall to buy a dress for my Jewish grandpa's party in November, but the suit caught my attention and alas, I came home with no dress.

On the subject of the party, this soiree is totally impromptu, totally not in Grandpa's nature. Sure, he loves the company of checkered characters...but I don't think I've every heard of him throwing a party just for the fuck of it. At any rate, I'm going...you know, for the checkered characters and stuff.

Grandpa in brief
He's 89, Jewish, originally from San Francisco, and inherited millions of dollars from his dad, who made a fortune making paper and being the ambassador to Italy during the Eisenhower administration. Grandpa's traveled all over the world and when I asked him where he hasn't been, he said, Romania, Antarctica, and some countries in Africa he can't recall. His favorite places are Brazil, Mexico, Russia and Italy. He's documented every trip on video, as he is crazy about video taping everything and editing them on his gnarly video editing software. He and Grandma live next door to my mom. He enjoys his nightly "chingaso time," which is his version of cocktail hour, exactly at 9 pm, and consisting of two shots of Scotch on the rocks. I've been invited to "chingaso time" about three times in my life. He introduced me to classical music. He also took me to Sea World when I was 11. And now he's throwing a party.

Checkered characters Grandpa's been known to hang with:
- Lirio, a Mexican lounge singer wannabe actress who used to put on shows in Grandpa's living room, complete with microphone and feather boa. She was notorious for not wearing underwear. I know this because my mom pointed out to me how her pubes stuck out of her dress. Lirio taught me the song, "El Negro," a very politically incorrect traditional Chilean song about how a kid is telling his mom that a mean black man is bothering him. I've also seen a video of Lirio taking a shower in Grandpa's shower. She's not doing anything except showering, but yeah, there's so much wrong with the fact that such a video exists and that I saw it.
- Jerry, the accordion player. He was my piano teacher for a short period of time, but I mostly saw him in Grandpa's living room having "chingaso time" and/or playing his accordion. He used to call songs, "diddies" and he ate eucalyptus-flavored cough drops like candy. He was married to a Jehovah's witness who never came over to Grandpa's house. A self-proclaimed Bohemian, Jerry used to go to the Czech Republic every year with just enough money to get there and back, and for food. He'd stay with relatives and study their language and culture for no particular reason, only for his own amusement. One time he sat down with our maid, who was from a small Indigenous village in Oaxaca, for hours and wrote voracious notes on how to say this and that in her dialect.
- Connie, a Canadian expat pianist who lived in Rome. She was tall, wrinkly, had red hair and smoked like it was going out of style.

And that's Grandpa.

The Benz

2007-09-29T09:59:00.000-05:00

I've never really cared for Mercedes Benz. Both my parents drive Mercedes. My dad: a 1977 baby blue diesel he bought off an old couple for $1500 about 10 years ago. It was at the time I was about to get my first car and when we went to see the car, I thought maybe it was for me. I had about $700 and told my dad that I was willing to contribute the money to purchase the Mercedes and he can just keep driving his current car, a 1989 red Chevrolet Beretta with no muffler. I gave him the money and we bought the car. Once the car was ours, he told me, "Honey, I don't think a 17-year-old girl should be driving an old diesel engine. You wouldn't know what to do with it." And then he gave me his old Beretta. For the $700 I gave him. Nice trick, dad.

The blue Mercedes (which I would've looked so cute driving) ended up outlasting the Beretta, which lasted me about three years, breaking down a week after I virtually killed it on the drive from Brownsville to San Marcos. Then I sold it to my hapless neighbors, who left the car parked in the apartment complex for months because (surprise!) it was a total lemon at this point. I warned them, though. Matt and I didn't have a way to get around for about six months, save for the shuttle bus, which drove us to and from school, and nice friends with whom we hitched rides to the grocery store and such.

My mom's car, on the other hand, is a new Mercedes. I'm not quite sure how she can afford it on her teacher's salary, but nice cars are kind of a priority for her, so there you go. I'm not crazy about driving it because it's bulky, the seats are uncomfortable, and I'm very aware that it's a nice car by the way people look at me on the road. I'm not into that sort of attention.

But something happened yesterday morning that changed my mind about Mercedes.

I was downtown, about to cross the street from my parking garage to the building I work in when I saw a pretty blonde girl turning slowly into my parking garage. She was wearing sunglasses and a pretty blouse, and listening to loud fun music -- the epitome of a young urban professional enjoying her drive to her downtown job. I saw her, thought about my dented Hyundai with no CD player and one working headlight, and suddenly wanted what she had -- her car, her sunglasses, her wardrobe, her placid expression that could best be described as content. You couldn't tell if she was going to work, happy hour, or coming back from a massage.

Her car was baby blue like my dad's. I decided that the blonde girl probably comes from a family of money and that's how she has that car. That's the most logical reason behind a young twenty-something driving a car like that, right? Or maybe she prioritizes like my mom. I doubt it, though. If she does come from money, then I don't feel so envious anymore. Yes, I still want that pleasant drive to work, but I wouldn't trade my dad's $700 tricky Beretta experience for anything. If I came from money, then I wouldn't know things like how to get my car running by opening the hood of my shitty Beretta every day after school and pouring water in the radiator (antifreeze was too expensive). I wouldn't have been the girl with the worst car of her group of friends and was always voted to drive "across"...meaning, drive across the bridge to Matamoros, Mexico, which was where the high school kids in Brownsville go to party. And if I came from money, I wouldn't be strangely proud that I am the only 26-year-old I know who's never had a CD player in her car...

But the winds are a-changing, because I'm feeling the itch to upgrade. I want a car that I feel good about. A car that I will wash more than twice a year. A car that has a CD player. The next car I buy may not be a Mercedes, but it will definitely be one in which I can listen to my music. And for sure one that won't get me voted to drive "across."

The exercise

2007-09-23T19:36:00.000-05:00

Note to self: Download the song, Teenagers, by My Chemical Romance. Maybe that new Linkin Park song, too. Did I just say that?

------------------------------------------------------------------

As I am trying to build my portfolio in the event that my cousin's agency calls back for an interview, I picked up an old textbook Matt tried to get me to read about four years ago. It's called "Creative Strategies in Advertising." I'd finished the first chapter back then, which inspired a very awkward fake campaign for pencils in which I used Matt's sister as my model. That was #5 in the "Suggested Activities" section.

Today I did #3, which is an inventory of my "creative resources." Here goes.

Favorite films
- The first one that comes to mind is Annie Hall. I've only seen it once, but it's Woody Allen's most famous movie and I love, love, love the dialogue he writes for his characters -- in his world, EVERYONE stutters -- and I also appreciate his almost deviant attitude toward love and adult male-female relationships. La-di-da.
- I also love Cabaret. The music's dope and Liza is fierce.
- Born Into Brothels inspires me.
- Zoolander makes me laugh.
- So does Grandma's Boy.
- The Royal Tenenbaums is cool. It's offbeat, not necessarily about romantic love -- it's more about a fucked up family I wish I knew. And every scene is perfect with its comically dramatic frames and colors.

Favorite entertainers
Sarah Silverman. She's not afraid to be weird and has a smart-ass mouth.

Favorite music
- Spanish rock
- Cuban music. Think Ibrahim Ferrer and Buena Vista Social Club.
- Emo rock. Don't judge me, monkey!
- Pretty much anything that's got a fly beat, intense lyrics and a sensitive/introspective/depressy feel to it.

Books
Ugh. I hate reading books. I just can't commit. But I do like the stuff in my Norton Anthology books from college, Ayn Rand (currently reading The Fountainhead) and William Carlos Williams poems.

TV shows, plays, operas and musicals
- Absolutely Fabulous. I like watching drunk, misanthropic British women ruin themselves and their families with their hilarious selfishness and self-absorption. It's a much smarter show than it lets on.
- I love Planet Earth.
- Sex and the City will always be in my heart.
- The L Word has replaced SATC. Sort of.
- I hate Cats; I like Les Miserables; Phantom's pretty good...so is The Marriage of Figaro. Jesus Christ Superstar is awesome. I love La Traviata and Othello. Don Giovanni's alright. A Streetcar Named Desire rocks my tits off. I just got back from seeing Coppelia in Fort Worth and even though it's not a TV show, play, opera or musical, this ballet kicks ass for a few reasons...chiefly because I watched it with my grandpa at least once a month when I was a kid and finally seeing it in person today moved me to tears. Aside from my personal connection to Coppelia, it's actually a truly impressive show and everyone should see it.

This concludes the exercise. #3 DONE! I'm ready for the next one.

Bueller...Bueller...

2007-09-22T15:34:00.002-05:00

I've got some serious 'splaining to do.

It has been almost a year since I've contributed to this corner of the Internet. I just kind of disappeared from here and went about my life. I admit, I've spent my time elsewhere: MySpace, Facebook, a short-lived new blog (I'll explain in a minute). The thing is this: something about this site became a weird place for me all of a sudden. There was a point in which I read old posts and became embarrassed that I'd revealed so much of myself and wanted to go away, far, far away from it, as if I'd turned a switch that made me not want to share myself anymore. It's kind of like when you're at a party and make a terrible joke and the music stops with a terrific scratch of a record and everyone in the room looks at you and then you run away.

I tried starting over. I created a brand new blog -- a clean slate, one that was untouched, unspoiled by my previous whining about life, work, etc. This new virgin blog was going to reflect how I wanted to see myself...or so I thought.

I find the new blog hollow, unintersting, lacking in substance. It lacks the previous posts that build up, complement, explain whatever current ramblings I choose to publish.

I reread old posts on this site. I kind of laugh now reading about how unhappy I was three years ago at my first job out of college, you remember, the office with the "deadhearts." I grimace at the totally reckless decision to quit that job and go to Italy and then come back to find that I not only had no job, but no real direction, only an album full of pretty pictures and a new fondness for fizzy water.

All this honesty made me shriek and run away. But rereading the posts on this site make me realize that this is me. What the hell am I running away from?

This has happened to me before...when I first started revealing myself on paper. I was 13 and wrote in my journal every day, documenting every event, every feeling, from the way my first boyfriend's hair smelled to the way holding his hand gave me butterflies. I innocently wrote every detail of how my parents' divorce affected me and trips to the mall with my aunt and how I wished I was grown up so I could do whatever I wanted and escape the angst of NOW (silly, silly girl).

After about a year of purging my innermost thoughts onto paper, I suddenly stopped. I'd said too much. I read old entries and hated myself for being so stupid. I put away the journal for a few years and went about my little world of high school, boyfriends, friends. Then at about age 16, I came back to my journal and was delighted by the memories of this and that. My new perspective at the ripe old age of 16 allowed me to embrace my former self and be free once again to start documenting the happenings of the time.

So what I'm trying to say is I'm back. A lot has happened in my life since October 2006 and I'm ready to share again. Some highlights:

- Dallas has been good to us. I've been a proofreader, a marketing assistant, a freelance copywriter, and now I'm at an ad agency (finally). The new gig is sweet (in theory) because I'm finally working in an advertising environment and get to do movie promos. The downside is that I am not doing anything creative, which might change soon. My cousin, who works at another agency, has informed me this week of an opening in her agency's creative department for a copywriter. Currently, my resume and some writing samples are in their hands and I'm wrecked with anticipation to say the least.

- I went to San Antonio for my 26th birthday and partied like a rock star. In attendance were my brother, his band, my dad and friends. And of course, Matt. You should be jealous.

- I participated in my gorgeous friend Crystal's wedding as a bridesmaid: this includes a legendary bachelorette weekend in Austin with the other secretly jealous bridesmaids, a drunken rehearsal dinner, and of course the wedding.

- I went to Puebla, Mexico for my cousin's wedding. On this trip I learned that: 1.) my brother talks more than possibly anybody else in the world when he's nervous, 2.) after meeting a German, a Belgian, and a Finnish, I will never worry about my accent again simply because their accents were so charming, 3.) if I go to one more wedding in Mexico without Matt, my family will think he does not exist.

- I saw my favorite band, Maná, in concert a few weeks ago.

There you have it. (It's good to be back.)

The Pretty Hangover

2006-10-23T21:51:00.000-05:00

Life is good. Life is really good right now.

It's not the kind of good that makes me deliriously happy -- that kind of happy is just obscene and only comes when you're blindcrazyrecklessly in love or when you win the lottery on the same day that you find out your worst enemy died; rather, it's the kind of good that's contained in glowing bursts of yellow and orange by a small red balloon bobbing up and down on a sea of moderate contentment, coming up slowly just as it's about to touch the water.

I'm doing well at work: finally I can be my moody, eccentric self without fear of what anyone thinks. I remember over a year ago I was too shy to even record my voice mail greeting -- now I openly (but tactfully, mind you) disagree with the CEO when I think she's wrong and choose the projects I want to do.

My self-esteem is at an all-time high and not in the arrogant, self-deluded way, but in the I-really-like-being-me-and-I-CAN-do-whatever-I-put-my-mind-to way. I've worked hard on these things -- things like focusing on developing my skills in order to achieve my professional goals, and doing so with poise and integrity and the ever vomitous mantra of loving-kindness -- and I'm seeing good results in the form of praise, easier paths, peace of mind, an overall sense of well-being and, well, happiness. All this without the help of T*ny Robbins.

My personal life is good, too. I'm enjoying my man like never before, our roomy, Mr. Biscuit, is pleasant and funny, and my peeps near and far are happy and healthy.

***************************************************************

Last night at around 10, Mr. Biscuit suggested we make an impromptu run to our favorite bar where the specials are always special and the lady servers are always up for a good flirt, a constant source of amusement for me to see my boy pals interact with these girls. We arrived, sat, ordered a round of drinks when we noticed the Karaoke was set up. It was on. We were going to tear it up.

So we tore through the books looking for the perfect song to sing: "no, not that one. It's too slow. Maybe that one. The crowd'll love it. Yeah, THAT one."

I went first and sang my usual "Me and Bobby Maghee" to the 12 or so people in the bar. Then Matt sang, then Mr. Biscuit and with that we had a mini-party fueled by beer and whiskey and uninhibited balls. If Mando were there, I would have sung "Waterloo" with him without knowing how, but dammit, it would've been good.

The highlight of the night was when Mr. Biscuit sang his versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Summer of '69" adorned with bouts of screaming (and not singing) his lyrics and kicking his leg in the air when necessary, rewarded with a complimentary shot of Rumplminze from one of the lady servers upon exiting the stage and a drink on the table, compliments of our very own lady server. Needless to say, Mr. Biscuit ended the night with a long conversation with the porcelain gods, followed by a pretty hangover today.

That brand of fun comes only once every three months or so. The way my small red balloon bobs, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Breakfast of Chumps

2006-10-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

Thank GOD it's the weekend.

Turns out I survived this bloody turd of a week and since about noon yesterday I have switched the light in my brain and body from violent green to red...not even red, more of a lazy, subdued hint of red behind a sheet of smoky white gradient.

I was relieved to know the breakfast I spent all of Thursday evening and some of Friday morning cooking for my work mates was a smash hit. The surprise star of the breakfast was the tomato and serrano pepper salsa, made from my mom's own recipe. I spent all of Friday (morning, afternoon and evening) and Saturday morning desperately trying to finish a freelance project that in the end is the culprit for my zombie-like haze now. But it was worth every minute.

Doing these projects, although stressful and tiresome, makes me realize that I am doing what I've always wanted: writing for a living. Under the pressure of a glaring deadline, mixed with the forced momentum in spite of exhaustion, I forget that there was a day when I would have killed for the opportunities I have been lucky enough to have today. Sure, the lull of corporate office work makes me want to kill myself sometimes, but it pays the bills and it's not without its tiny rewards in the form of insurance, paid time off and the occasional favorable review and pay raise. And if you're very, very lucky, all these things might even create the illusion of professional fulfillment. But only if you're lucky...or a chump.

That's not enough for me. I need supplemental "work" to feel validated, relevant, active. It's refreshing to clear the cobwebs in my head formed by the hum-drum office atmosphere and be able to use my brain, challenge myself to produce top-notch work under pressure and ultimately see the fruits of my toil in the form of a Web site or 12-page brochure.

As long as there's still a weekend to recharge my batteries and play video games...

At least I'm not barefoot and pregnant

2006-10-12T17:30:00.000-05:00

Why I decide to write a blog post when I have shit to do is beyond me. If ever I was to drop dead from a stress-related heart attack, it would be tonight because I have to 1.) finish translating copy for a Web site (something I've never done before, much less for legitimate business people who are paying me money to do it) AND 2.) cook an elaborate breakfast of three kinds of breakfast tacos and mixed fruits with plain yogurt and peach cobbler for 30 people at my place of work. Why, you ask would I volunteer to do such a thing? I'll tell ya:

- I'm a chump.
- I'm an asshole chump whose review is coming up and thought I'd kiss corporate ass with some ethnic cooking.

On top of this all, the boys in my house are conveniently MIA this evening. One's bowling and the other is at a Mavericks game. There's nothing like inadvertently acting out the very stereotypes we abhor, boys out doing sports stuff and the woman at home cooking and being brainy.

With the boys gone, I have no one but my damn self to send to the store to replace the tiny breakfast muffins that were eaten between last night and this afternoon, WHICH I might add were not intended for the boys to eat.

They are like animals, these boys.

Shoo now. Shoo.

2006-10-09T20:54:00.000-05:00

I get to wear jeans to work for the rest of the week. All I had to do was give my boss $5 for Susan B. Komen's breasts.

Lucky me.

I also cut the shit out of my right thumb while opening a can of corn. The amount of blood that came out of my body was alarming, but the corn was delicious.

I am busy with freelance projects right now and really shouldn't be doing anything other than working on them. When I go to the bathroom, I feel guilty.

There is a new boy room mate in my house. He's been mopey lately and it's no surprise that he's out for a drive right now. So I changed the TV from Larry King Live to whatever's on E!.

Now, shoo. I must work.

The head injury

2006-09-15T14:17:00.000-05:00

I'm here, I'm here, sweetie dahling, don't panic. I'm here.

Life's been work, work, work lately. As a result, I've neglected my personal life, home, and of course, this blog.
What else is new?

So no work for the rest of the day. I am at home on this beautiful Friday afternoon, listening to jams from the 90s (thank you, cable TV) and having a glass of wine. I escaped from the cubicle farm because of some very negligent Thai restaurant owners I encountered at lunch today.

Let me explain.

My lovely co-workers and I were having the mildly pleasurable small talk that people have before their orders arrive, talking about our plans for the weekend and emitting little fits of semi-forced laughs to enhance the experience of being out of the office for an hour when an air conditioning vent fell open, knocking a rather large picture frame off the wall. The corner of the frame hit my forehead, intially scaring the shit out of me, then embarassing me. Everyone in the restaurant reacted, which annoyed me, including the owner/waitress, who seemed scared shitless that I was going to shut her hole-in-the-wall restaurant down.

We moved. Our food arrived, I hardly touched it, trying to get past the incident, all the while an increasing pain developed in my forehead. I asked my co-workers if it looked bad when one of them gave me a compact and there I saw it. A scratch that looked like someone dug their thumbnail into my head...a little red, but overall, not life-threatening. But seeing this sent my blood a-boiling because the prospect of a scar on my face past the age of 7 is frankly ridiculous to me. Plus, it's my face, dammit!

I tried masking my escalating anger by eating, putting the fork down, attempting a joke or two. But my attempts at light-heartedness were sullied by the desperate, miserly owner/waitress, who showed me the bill and pointed out that our $1.19 iced teas were free. Oh really? Okay thanks.

Then co-worker #1 went to order a Thai tea to go, bringing three cups back, saying the lady comped them. Again, thanks, but the idea of a scar on my face still lingered as I tried (really hard, mind you) to be nice and not make faces. We decided to leave because our hour was up and as I approached the counter, I pulled out my wallet to pay. The lady screwed up her face, looked at the bill, then away, then through her broken English I understood the words, "no pay."

So no pay it was. And then I went back to work for 30 minutes, decided I was still agitated, and cut my week off short by leaving work and coming home to my beloved Internets and 90s music.

I digress.

Last night Matt and I had a "date"...you know, those things couples forget to have after seven years of being together. We sat at the bar at Pappadeaux, ate, drank wine and talked for two hours. Then we came home and watched David Letterman. It was the most splendid evening I've had in a long, long time. And I won't tell you any more because I'm a lady.

And I've just forgotten all about my little lunchtime mishap.

My Saturday Night

2006-07-29T22:48:00.000-05:00

We're keeping it low key tonight.

The people in our neighborhood

2006-05-27T15:33:00.000-05:00

This week has been especially taxing. The highlight, or low point rather, was when my precious car was violently raped in one bang! when the front of a car hit it as I was backing out of a parking spot right in front of my garage. Why I decided to park in a space when I have an attached garage perfectly suited for my car on this particular day, I'll never know, but I did and now I have a sizeable crack in my bumper that is shifted to the left -- evidence of how fast the dumb bitch was going and the source of this week's headaches and developing ulcers.

If you've ever been in an accident (now that I'm an expert on the subject), you'll know that it's an unpleasant experience. There's the initial slow-motion shock of the impact, to which I reacted with both hands on my ears and screamed, and immediately afterward there's the look back to look at the ugly face of the person who hit you. Because when someone's pissed off and do damage to your property, they're never attractive.

I got out of my car about 30 seconds before I was ready -- I was still shaky and to be honest kind of scared of this girl who looked like she was about to kick my ass -- and she got out of her car crying. She told me, "you wouldn't believe the fucking day I've had already!" This almost incited a sort of sympathy on my part -- the fact that she was human enough to show an emotion (ANY emotion) other than anger and wanting to kick my ass -- but I really wanted to tell her "do you think I give a shit about your bad day -- you don't know me!" Thankfully Big C came out of the apartment and I was reminded that it's going to be alright because if I was left alone with this mess of a girl with her crying and heightened emotions, I don't know how I would have reacted.

To make a long story short, it was obviously her fault and she was freaked out by this fact, so she became irrational and confrontational. Not the most pleasant situation, I have to say. She asked for my license for god's sake and gave me shit about my addresses not matching! I fought the urge to cut her tongue out and spoon her eyeballs out with it and tried my best to handle the situation like a rational adult. I invoked the same calm and sense of self-control I do at work when my boss acts crazy and took control. I told the girl what's going to happen, she's going to be alright, our insurance people will handle it and no, your mama's not going to kill you: you didn't sustain much damage compared to my vehicle (which your mama's car just raped, thank you very much)...just a couple of scratches at best, you'll be fine.

So now I am driving a rental car and am looking at a higher premium because it's going to be a no fault situation, thanks to the big white truck parked next to me, obstructing both our visibility. And that's the drama with my car.

In other news, our days with the marvelous Big C are numbered. He leaves June 10 for sunny California and I can't really tell you how much it hurts to see him go. I've become used to him and, well there are many things I could say on the subject. Our friendship is special and famous and if there were any truly honest and loyal people left in this world -- any at all -- he would be it. This weekend we (Big C, Matt and I) are poised to put our party hats on and celebrate Big C's birthday weekend and raise our glasses to friendship and not getting our asses kicked by ornery speed-happy bitches. And we're eating cake -- one I will build.

A collection of boogars on the blog wall

2006-05-22T20:23:00.000-05:00

I hate it when people say "literally" for emphasis. No you didn't just "literally died from laughing." Because then you'd be dead.

Whenever I pass an Abercrombie store, I think about high school...which is odd because I never shopped there in high school.

The older I get, the more things I want to acquire so I can take care of them: plants, roomates, chia pets, kitties...I'm seriously thinking about getting a parrot. I know that one day I'll add children to that list and that FREAKS ME OUT.

I can finally name more than three players in the Dallas Mavericks.

Did you know that if you slightly pinch your nostrils and breathe in really hard, you can smell your boogars? My high school boyfriend told me that. I also learned the word "cunt" from him.

Speaking of my high school boyfriend, I just saw his myspace and he's totally gay and bald and I'm so glad I didn't end up with him. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay and/or bald, but you just had to know him (or see his myspace) to see how much he truly sucks. And how retarded we can be in high school.

I really like that TV ad where the guy in the bus tells that girl to shake her junk. If you know what I'm talking about, I think you're cool.

I want to go out and shake my junk, but I'm too white and dorky and lazy. Go Spurs.

Poop cock munch on a butt stick of herpes

2006-05-08T17:31:00.000-05:00

Today was one of those days I wished for everyone's horrible, horrible death. No one pleased me and I believe I wasn't pleasant in turn. People's voices sounded like ten thousand banshees inside my earholes. And no, I'm not hungover. Just tired of inadequate retards who should be caged and be made to eat their own feces while small children point and laugh.

On a lighter note, the boys and I went to San Antonio this weekend where a beautiful retard-free weekend was had in which I saw my mom, grandma, funny-ass aunt who tells more sex jokes than a 14-year-old boy masturbates, 10 friends (half of whom probably masturbate as much as 14-year-old boys) and a big Mexican dude make a drunken fool of himself while giving a speech at my friend's wedding.

Penis. Penis. Penis. And kitty. (penis gets no link...boo for you.)

I saw someone vomit tonight

2006-05-02T23:18:00.000-05:00

...and now I want to vomit. Gross.

* Real post coming soon.

Someone's been having fun lately

2006-04-30T11:48:00.000-05:00

Today I won't:

Drink red wine.

Fall asleep on the couch.

Spend money frivolously.

Waste my Sunday on the Internet.

A day without boys

2006-04-14T19:36:00.000-05:00

Today was one of those rarities of a day -- one in which I did not go to work due to holiday (Good Friday? I say Great Friday!) and not due to hangover/bitterness/laziness and I had all day to do whatever the *bleep!* I wanted (gosh!).

And no boys were around.

Don't get me wrong, I love the boys who live in my house. Their silly antics (responses expressed in farts, heated conversations about politics and video games, enthusiasm for shit like dinner and new episodes of South Park) keep me amused. But sometimes I need some alone time. And I done had me some.

First, I woke up at 9, made coffee and sat in front of the computer, dreaming of the ways I can spend my glorious day alone. The hours ahead of me were like my blank cavas and I was going to paint giant streaks of rainbow colors, skipping and singing a tra-la-la tune along the way.

To start my day, I went to the pool at 10:30 only to sit there and get chilly because the sun had said "see ya!" and clouds sullied my poolside experience. My new pink bathing suit and I did not appreciate that much. So I went home and ate last night's chili-flavored Ramen noodles and waited for Matt to get home for lunch.

He came home with Taco Bell burritos and we watched People's Court. Then he went back to work and I waited on the second stair step for the rest of the afternoon waiting for him to get back.

I'm lying.

I dropped him off at work so I could have the car and proceed with the rest of my day. In an effort to get nice and brown, I went back to the pool. I took our copy of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Repair" because I heard it's good and dammit, I'm going to make a concerted effort to read the books I own. It's ridiculous that we have so many books (classics, too!) and I've only read about half of them. Twice.

By the way, do not take Dr. Pepper with you to the pool, especially on a hot day. Take water instead. You'll thank me later for this bit of advice.

After about an hour, I came back home, took a shower and went to the kosher grocery store, which was buzzing with Passover celebrators and as I manuevered through the aisles, I thought to myself, "even though this place is packed, it's not as bad as shopping at HEB in Brownsville on a normal day." Seriously, folks, it's downright infuriating shopping in Brownsville. Those of you from Browntown know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, I came home with an aching pocketbook from frivolous purchases -- smelly candles, a new razor because mine is like six years old and embarrassingly grimy, roses of different colors because it's Easter and the place needs a woman's delicate touch sometimes, plus the basics like eggs, biscuits and tiny pieces of ham to make little egg and ham sandwiches for breakfast. As I was cutting the roses to fit my vase, I felt pleased with myself. Like I invoked the cheesetastic Oprah segment of "finding your spirit" and not only did I paint rainbows on the hours of my day, but I brought out my super-duper charged estrogen paint brush and sprinkled the day with roses and smelly candles. To top it off, I put a pump soap dispenser that lets out a foamy pear-scented ball of joy in the powder room. This place now reeks of estrogen. Or pears.

At the end of my glorious day of deconstructionist time, I transgressed into the tight-lipped amused lady figure of the house as the boys were now home. Big C playing his video game and Matt playing navigator to the game and me on the computer. A comment here and there about the roses, smelly candle and foamy soap of joy and my chest inflates with pride because I have made my mark.

This may make the headlines. I'll wait and see.

2006-04-11T21:59:00.000-05:00

We didn't go camping afterall. Boo. Instead, Matt and I went for a walk in the park. It was pretty and now we are tired.

Today I bought a new bathing suit. It's pink.

Long, red and stiff

2006-04-01T19:25:00.000-06:00

I've been camping three times -- and every time has been an experience in itself -- but I'd have to say I've never been excited about the trips until about an hour before getting to the site. I have a hard time looking forward to things that require any kind of effort and planning, especially if I'm not the one planning it. That's Big C's job.

Next week is my fourth camping trip and for the first time, I'm actually excited about it. What changed, you ask? One little trip to a sporting goods store, that's what.

The purchases that have ignited the outdoorsy spirit in this cynical wine and cheese gal:

- A tent. The past three times I've camped, Matt and I have shared Big C's gi-normous tent. As I see it, the fourth time solidifies us as true campers, thus the necessity to stop being freeloading assholes and get our own damn tent. $30, my friends.

- An air matress. Our old one is broken.

- One very awesome chair with leopard print and a cushioney seat. I'm the only girl going on this trip and I have a feeling no one else will want to be seen enjoying this chair as much as I will.

- A fishing pole! It's red and long and stiff (ooo, baby) and I'm very excited to use it. As long as someone else baits my hook and guts my fish...that is, if I catch any. Doesn't matter -- I've got a red fishing pole. By the way, I've never been fishing before.

I promise not to get drunk and use the axe and I also promise to take pictures. Ciao, darlings!

Now I ain't one to gossip, but ain't heard this from me...

2006-03-28T06:37:00.000-06:00

Last night a cop pounded on one our neighbor's doors, yelling "court summons" with the authority and only a man of the law could assume. The neighbor's car was there and the lights flickered off (idiot). He was obviuosly home and knew he was in trouble. Big C and I were in the dining room hanging out in front of the computer when this growing spectacle first caught our attention. We watched from the dining room, mouths open, intermittenly saying "oh damn" and gasping in disbelief.

Then, the purple cloud of curiosity, which is inherently part of our natures growing up in neighborhoods where you stare at the unfamiliar car (and in turn, you were stared at when you went to a new neighborhood), led us to my bedroom, where we could watch more discreetly with the lights off and have a better view because it's on the third floor. The three of us, Matt, Big C and I, ran gleefully upstairs, cigarettes and beers in hand, and positioned ourselves in front of the window as if it was our own big screen television.

The cop evenutally left and about 10 minutes later, the lights turned back on. Then a calm neighbor man and his woman who we SWEAR is a stripper (strange schedule plus big bag plus big boobies equals stripper, according to our estimations) walked out to the car. He opened the car door for her and then they were off. Where could they have gone? To hide the stash? To get a lawyer? To tell their friends? To run away?

We didn't see any bags and they left their dog, so we figured they'd be back. He came back alone, which meant to us that he went to drop off his woman at a hotel. You know, for protection from the cop. The show was over at this point. It lasted a whole cigarette.

We came back downstairs, tuned in to some reality "miracle" show where they show blind kids and people all messed up from debilitating diseases and they make you want to cry because they're so fucked up and they get surgeries and in the end they're all better, and proceeded to talk about what we would do if a mother/daughter combo propositioned us with sex. Our answers:

Big C: "Hell yeah."

Matt: Makes a face.

Me: "I couldn't do it because I'd be thinking the whole time how fucked up they are for doing this. I mean a mother and daughter."

Maybe it's different for dudes. I'd like to hear some thoughts on this. That means you. Go!

My lint brush is not up to par

2006-03-20T22:22:00.000-06:00

Hey. I'm alive.

I'm just pissed off as usual. I feel the way Avril Lavigne looks: all "aaaahhh, screw you, and ahhhhh..."

aaaaaaaahhhh.

At least kitties make me happy. Thank you, Mando.

I'm going to finish my Topo Chico and watch MTV and maybe fall asleep on the couch.

aaaaaaaahhhhhh.

To prove that all I really want in a woman is boobs and permission to laugh at poop jokes

2006-03-07T21:19:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I think about how my life would be if things were, for a lack of a better word, different -- if I was six inches taller, if I had grown up in some far away place like The Congo, if I liked the taste of beets, if I had not spent every day after school in my parents' music shop during my formative years...

If I liked women instead of men...

After some serious thought, I came up with this list of famous women I would want to be with if I were gay. Some of them, I have to admit, are so yummy I would jump right out of the closet for if they gave me the "come hither" eyes. That is, if I were so inclined.

Jennifer Aniston

I once read in GQ that she has a house in Malibu and the writer described it so beautifully that I envisioned myself spending many a quaint Saturday morning reading the paper, drawing moustaches on the pictures while sipping my green tea with no sugar. She'd be reading the entertainment section, scoffing at Lindsey Lohan's latest drunken display because we both hate her and her publicist's abuse of the media in an effort to get her name out there. Then she'd take off her white bikini top and let me play with her boobs for the rest of the morning. I've always kind of wondered what her boobs were like.

Scarlett Johanssen

Again, boobs. If I were gay, I would be a boob gal. And she's got some big ones. Not to mention that there's a mature, sultry woman behind that sweet smile. Her smoky voice would perforate the night air with conversations about Chekhov's seemingly trite, plotless stories over a bottle of Merlot.

She'd be the kind of girlfriend who would be happy watching old episodes of "I Love Lucy" or glamming it up on a Wednesday night and hitting the hottest clubs in our matching blue babydoll dresses, flirting with guys all night and smiling at each other all night knowing we're going home to our king-sized love cloud we call a bed in our black-and-white-themed bedroom and totally doing it.

Milla Jovovich

Milla is probably the first woman I’ve ever thought was worthy of being gay with. When I saw her on “The Fifth Element,” I wanted to dye my hair orange and talk funny. Multi-pass…

Our relationship would be the kind where I would constantly feel inferior and not worthy because she’s so tall and gorgeous and thin that I would feel like the elephant man next to her. This would wreak havoc on my insecurities, paralyzing me from sitting next to her on the couch in our lounge clothes (she in lingerie and me in my Man Show t-shirt and boxer shorts -- totally looking like a slob who's unworthy of being in the presence of such decadent beauty)

to going out to a random bar (once getting to the bar and meeting her fabulous friends -- and by 'fabulous' I mean people who may not be necessarily famous, but nonetheless people with foreign accents who have slept or done coke with famous people, which in my book qualifies them as 'fabulous' -- while I go to the ladies room and check my teeth for spinach because I ordered the appetizer with the lowest carbs because she's only 1% fat body content and I am 3% and my fat ass can't risk embarassing her because she's got an image and her girlfriend slash life partner HAS to be almost as hot her if not AS hot...). I would be the butch by default, only because my boobs are bigger, I'm slightly hairier and I'm more ethnic. This relationship would eventually end because I couldn't handle being the butch. Moving on.

Shane on "The L Word" (Katherine Moennig)

This woman is hot. She’s the perfect mix between being mannish and pretty and when I find myself lusting after her when I get my Sunday night fix watching “The L Word” (not to ever, EVER be compared to my Sunday night fix of yesteryear, “Sex and the City.” Nothing can replace my SATC.), I feel like I have a crush on the cutest, most untouchable bad boy in high school...you know, the one who smiled at you once in the hallway, but never did it again and you forgave him because you felt lucky enough to have had his attention for two seconds. Shane is that boy to me: she is aloof, but has the capacity for passion, comfortable in her skin and so, so sexy. If Shane asked me to drop everything and run away to lesbianland with her and frolic up and down the corridors of Lowe’s with her holding hands on a Saturday afternoon, I would. No question – except I’d ask her to take me to her friend Kit’s way awesome LA café, The Planet, instead so I could meet Foxy Brown. Shane would be fun to shower with and for some reason I want her to carry me around on her back, piggy-back style.

Sarah Silverman

Ms. Silverman said (at the end credits of the Independent Spirit Awards, which she hosted), "if I hear the word 'independent' one more time, I'm gonna shit myself...then eat it...(eats a couple of popcorn kernels and thinks for a second) then digest it, then shit it again. Then I'll eat that, puke it up and...(ponders for long time) shit on that. And then that's it. We can all go home then." If Sarah will have me, I will take her hand and we will giggle forever, out-doing eachother's shit/fart/molestation and other inappropriate jokes till we are side by side, six feet under and worms are crawling in and out of our wrinkled, grey, dead cooters. It would be my absolute pleasure to grow old with such a deliciously sick individual. Plus, she plays the guitar and sings songs about how people of all colors fart.

Be still, my heart.

You ain't shit

2006-03-02T17:48:00.000-06:00

I've had an epiphany.

I've realized today that I ain't shit. I've been going about life all wrong. I whine and complain that I don't get the respect I think I deserve, I should be invited to all meetings, everyone should listen to ME -- basically I should have it easy because I'm me and screw everyone else.

I'm awake now. I realize that this attitude will get me nowhere. In fact, I look like a damn spoiled princess, alienating everyone around me, causing everyone I encounter (who doesn't by some miracle like me in spite of my flaws...I call these people my friends and family) to dismiss me or worse, dislike me. And up until an hour ago, I have been that spoiled princess. Call this "growing up," if you will. What you are witnessing right now, my dearests, is the maturing process of deconstructionist. Now if we can only get her to stop referring to herself in the third person.

I have to admit, it was nice being a spoiled princess. I floated through life effortlessly riding on the momentum of youthful cuteness and charm. It's amazing how easily many people cave when you pout and sprinkle some elegant, subtle manipulation in the air. (I used to disguise it in the form of fairy dust.) Those days are over. Everything finally makes sense. You witnessing an integral step in the maturing process of the d, my friends -- acceptance that I ain't shit.

My plan now that I know I ain't shit:

- Actually play by the rules -- it's easier than it sounds because I just have to watch everybody else. They've been doing it all their lives.
- Have a beer because I can now relax.
- Excel at everything I do because even though I ain't shit, I still have some of my old "getting by skills." I'm a creature of habit and the mix between my humble acceptance of my newfound post in life and my irresistible charm will make me queen superstar of the planet earth.

I'm telling you, it's the perfect formula for becoming the queen superstar of the planet earth. Acceptance that you ain't shit plus charisma equals superstardom...if not a sound life at least.

The kept woman

2006-02-17T18:35:00.000-06:00

First thing's first: my gorgeous friend Crystal must've read my post a few weeks ago and took it to heart because she and Big C will no longer be doing it. If you've read his drunken ramblings lately, you might know that they aren't seeing each other anymore.

I can't have any opinions on it because they're both my friends and stuff -- I'm desperately trying to not turn out like the pushy Mexican mother I am destined to become, thus the refraining from opining -- but I'm disappointed that it didn't work out for both of them. She came to pick up her things yesterday and she won't be coming 'round for a while and I'm left with the "aw, that sucks" kind of feeling. It won't be the same anymore, but eh, that's life.

In other news, I've had this terrific strain of the flu that I think has been really fun and thanks so much, work ladies, who came to work sick, coughing and sneezing all over the papers and office machines, spreading your germs and blessing me with this awesome crud that's been an absolute joy to live through. Happy Valentine's to you, bitches. I hope you appreciate MY Valentine's gift to you -- going to work sick all week and doing everything you've done for me in hopes of spreading this crud back to you and making the world a big stinkin' snotty place. You're welcome.

"So, deconstructionist, tell me what's really bothering you?" says the little snot goblin on my shoulder. "I'm sick, motherfucker. Sick of everything."

I soooooo want to bitch about work, but the truth is that I don't want to turn this blog into my "work kevetch fest" -- that's a luxury I do not want to indulge in. It's kind of like not masturbating whenever you have the house to yourself. Just because you can do it doesn't mean it's always necessary. Besides, if I allowed myself to just pour out every detailed reason why I want to leave my job onto this blog, it would be sullied forever and I'm afraid that when I look back on it in a few months when one day I don't feel like posting and browse through the archives, I might find out that I'm a fickle, immature schmuck who is never happy and I should just grow the fuck up and accept that work is stupid and boring and will always be stupid and boring and if I want money to do the fun things that I do (use Internet, eat, drink wine), I need to work. End of story. Wait, girls can be schmucks, right?

Maybe I'm just pissed off that no one ever told me that work sucks. Or maybe I was told, but I refused to believe it. It would be so freaking awesome to be a kept woman. Wait before you judge, though -- let me explain what I mean.

First of all, for me to be a kept woman, my man would have to work and make enough money for the both of us to live. By living, I mean being able to pay rent, bills, buy food and have enough money left over to save (ha, yeah right!) and/or for a monthly shopping trip of $50-200. I desperately need new clothes or shoes about once a month, you see. I blame the weight loss. Before you start hating me and saying, "what a brat, what nerve! I can't believe she's saying these things" just wait (and be glad I'm being honest with you -- not too many people are honest about what they want). I'd work, too, but not the kind of work I do now, which is soul-crushing and mind-numbing. I'd work freelance writing/editing jobs that only last from two weeks to six months, because that's about the time it takes for me to be sick of any job. It would be ideal -- I do a job for a set fee, move on and everyone's happy. The end. That's why I need my man to work a steady job -- for insurance in case there's an extended period of time that I don't work, during which I would be a home maker slash novelist slash rock star. See? It's really simple. This plan just requires some team work.

Fuck my career, fuck the real world, fuck the lot of it -- I'm too lazy to deal with it and I refuse to accept that my life can be any less awesome than my pretend-kept woman life.

Did I mention that I've decided to go back to school in the fall? This is probably the first big decision I've made entirely on my own, without feeling the need to due to pressure from my parents, society, grandparents, etc. This idea was born from my brain. I'll go into it later, when I'm not coughing up a lung and making rice (in that order).

Start your Saturday morning off right

2006-02-11T10:23:00.000-06:00

As he got up from the couch to heat up a slice of last night's pizza, Matt indulged me with this gem:

"I hate it when parents brag about how smart their kids are. If your three-year-old can do something better than you and you're standing there laughing, you should be ashamed...not proud."

Hold the cream -- I'd like some cynicism in my coffee please.

Top ten reasons to quit smoking

2006-02-10T12:07:00.000-06:00

1.) They say it's bad for you.
2.) Your teeth end up looking like popcorn kernels.
3.) You run the risk of small children throwing stones at you chanting, "dirty lung, dirty lung!"
4.) It's expensive.
5.) You have to brush your teeth extra hard before you go to the dentist because you don't want her to know you smoke.
6.) People are slightly intimidated by the cloud of smoke that surrounds you. They think you're the devil.
7.) You age quickly. The horror!
8.) You have to clear your throat before you answer the phone.
9.) When you're in bed with your significant other, they tell you your hair smells like toast.
10.) Ashes are a bitch to clean off the carpet.

This is the year, my dearies -- the year I quit. But never fear -- I will still find a way to intimidate people with the cloud of smoke.

"Up yours." There, I said it.

2006-01-31T18:32:00.000-06:00

Hair: Straight
Grey hair: One strand that I refuse to pull out -- natural highlights, you know
On my face: Glasses, lipstick, grey eye shadow and black mascara
Blemishes: Two...(fuckers...)
Jacket: Still on
Things I've put in my mouth and ingested: Two cups of that Kenyan-Arabic-South American coffee that's turned out to be quite disappointing, two beef fajita tacos, half a bottle of pineapple-flavored Topo Chico and a glass of water.
Perkiness level at noon: High
Perkiness level now: Moderate and falling
Times I've uttered the words "up yours": zero, but the night's young...

I'm gonna go play Playstation now. Thus my campaign to not grow up continues.

Thinking ahead

2006-01-30T01:21:00.000-06:00

I fucking love that song from the 80's from the Damn Yankees, "Can you take me hiiiiiiggggh enough..." but I can't seem to remember all of it. I can't believe I have to go to work tomorrow after such a gorgeous weekend. I'm tired of work -- I don't think I'll go anymore. I'm seriously thinking about grad school right now. This is more my schedule anyway -- watching movies until 1:30 am and playing guitar. What's so bad about prolonged youth? Eh? Just another two years? Eh???? C'mon...I'm not ready for this waking up early slash rat race shit! The stress is giving me white hairs! My next project is to come up with $70,000 a year for tuition at SMU. Fiddle sticks.

Anyway, I just made my new Kenyan-Arabic-South American coffee that's really tasty for tomorrow so I can shave a few seconds off my morning and just flip the switch and it's the only thing I'm really looking forward to in the morning, next to waking up next to my smelly man and washing my underarms with this green tea-scented liquid soap I got for X-mas from my boss.

Think positively, Ms. D. If you think the week will be good, it will be good. Pah, who am I kidding?

Cunt. Tee-hee.

Addiction is...

2006-01-26T04:51:00.000-06:00

When you can't sleep because of a progressively worsening sinus infection so you get up to have some water and a cigarette.

Bring me a party, bitte

2006-01-22T13:17:00.000-06:00

This is rare – a Sunday morning when the sky is dismal gray and the water falling from it sounds like crackling papers and for once it’s not depressing or unwelcome. The sunny not-cold weather was starting to bore me kind of like if I had cheesecake for dinner every night.

But fear not! I’m cranky as usual. I spent an almost infuriating minute looking for the Coffeemate because the milk in my refrigerator is so old I’m afraid to see the chunkies when I throw it out. I started to become very annoyed at Big C for moving it – I was sure HE was the one who moved it! – until I found it in the pantry and realized I might have been the one who moved it. To that I offer a sheepish “my bad.”

This weekend has been blah, but in a good way. When Matt picked me up from work on Friday, we drove around for about an hour and a half looking for something to do. There are so many ways one can spend a Friday post-work happy hour in Dallas, but we always end up doing the same thing when the choice is up to us: Buffalo Wild Wings, where the drinks are cheap and the NTN is available.

It was the perfect date. We sat close to each other and played NTN, winning most of the games and taking it way too seriously. It’s the typical Matt and Tanya date, going all the way back to our college days in San Marcos when no one was around, we’d sneak off to the Applebee’s down the road from our apartment and play NTN with the other regulars like Dane, Murphy and this one crazy bitch named Norma who we’d avoid like an STD.

Moving along.

Saturday was spent mostly in bed watching TV. We also recorded our answering machine greeting. It goes like this: Big C speaking: “Please leave a message after the tone.” Me: “Por favor deja un mensaje despues del tono.” Matt: “Bitte verlassen Sie eine Nachricht nach dem Ton.”

In other news, my mom called and said she’s coming to spend my 25th birthday with me. Every year on my birthday she tells me the same thing: “at this time X years ago, I was in the throws of pain waiting for you to be born.” And then she hugs me and I pretend to be sorry for causing her so much pain.

To celebrate the fact that I’ve lived so bloody long, this year I want to do something big. I’m too lazy and proud to plan anything on a large scale for myself, but if no one else will plan anything this year, I’ll take it into my own hands. I’ll use my mom’s visit as the excuse. I’m thinking lots of food, drinks and music. And pressies are mandatory.

Past birthdays in review
I remember my 22nd birthday in San Marcos Matt was busy doing a very important school project and Mando came over telling me he had our whole day planned. He gave me a few choices, too: we could either go see “Bringing Down the House” and spend the day in Austin or go to Halcyon for a quickie beer and afterward see where the day takes us. We opted for the latter choice and I had two Rolling Rocks at two in the afternoon. Then we walked around downtown Austin looking like two deranged goth kids and ended up back at my place on the couch. Later that night I popped open a bottle of champagne, Jenny and my gorgeous friend Crystal came over and we went to eat dinner at the River Pub and Grill, where Matt made a surprise appearance and my birthday was complete.

And the next year I remember Mando coming over and we drank bellinis god knows where and it took three trips to the DMV to get my license renewed. And we sat on the couch and giggled with unabated glee watching the little alien on my new cell phone do different things every time we flipped it open. Then we went to have dinner and drinks at the ever-so-not-fancy-but-totally-awesome Tap Room, where the idiot cunt waitress spilled an entire pint of Shiner on my pretty dress before I took my first sip.

I had to go home and change and when I came back, she said, “oh THAT dress is sooooo much cuter” to which I responded, “yeah, the other one was my FIRST choice.” Then I made her lift the back of my dress and kiss my ass and wish me a happy birthday. Okay, I didn’t make her do that, but I gave her the stink eye all night and had a good time anyway.

And last year I was on an airplane on my way to Rome and had two glasses of red wine and watched Napoleon Dynamite on the tiny screen in front of my seat.
I know I can’t recreate or top any of these birthdays because my dear Mando is not here with me and he hates Dallas, but OMG it would be so fucking awesome if he made a surprise visit (hint, hint, wink, wink). Maybe I can lure him with the alien on my cell phone and beer. We may not be able to have it all, but I assure you, dear readers, that there will be beer and food and a good time will be had. That’s for sure. And if the moons are aligned right, there just may be some drunk dancing with my mom standing in the background making faces as if she was going through the labor pains all over again.

The three-chord segue

2006-01-17T20:37:00.000-06:00

I have been a music fiend lately. It’s the perfect place to hide, get lost, visit other places. I don’t know about you, but sometimes I day dream – correction: I day dream ALL the time – that I am living out my dream as a member of a silly girl group (think Tenacious D meets The Donnas – and not that I necessarily like The Donnas…they’re just the first girl group that comes to mind that’s not all estrogened out like the Bangles or Go-gos). In this day dream, I am about 30, which is the age that in my mind, I will finally have the discipline to be an above-average musician and will be wise enough about the world to bring a certain charm to the stage – not the charm that comes from a 22 or 25-year-old youth who is more likely to display a bouncy-tittied, wide-eyed optimistic kind of charm, but a seasoned, mad-at-the-world, I-had-the-chance-to-grow-up-but-didn’t-wanna-dammit attitude with toned arms and slightly smaller titties. Only when I’m 30 will I be able to bring that. I’m not sure what I’ll play or do – I know I’ll never be the guitarist my wee brother is (he’s seriously the most talented musician I’ve ever known and I will never tell him), but I can play your basic three-chord song. And I can sing. Maybe my voice isn’t fantastic, but I’ve got passion. It comes from my crotch.

And in these day dreams, my silly girl group only plays small venues with no expectations or hopes of being “discovered” or famous. We’ll only play the venues that match our soggy, mal-adjusted (but still fantastically charismatic!) insides. They will be small dives, but not too dank, with smoke dancing slowly under the too-bright sky lights that the owner of the establishment once thought were classy. The clientele will be there not to see us. No, they came to enjoy the $2 Coors and just happened to be there when we were there. And at the end of the night, they will like us. They won’t love us, mostly because they won’t know us, but they will go away thinking, “man, I should catch their next show.” It’s next Tuesday, that’s when it is, motherfucker. Be there or be drunk at home listening to your crappy Dave Matthews CD.

*********************************

My moment of me-lodrama (emphasis on ME)

I have these moments throughout the day – you just happened to catch one. Here goes.

I think I have the predisposition to lead a very lonely life. Those of you who know say, “wha? But she’s bubbly for a nearly 25-year-old and plus, she’s got perky tits!” Yeah, I know. But despite my silly, perky disposition, I don’t answer my cell phone, much like my darling Mando, and I don’t call people. Ever. I don’t even call my parents. I don’t even want to answer the door when my gorgeous friend Crystal comes over. But that’s because my house is crowded these days. Maybe that’s why I’m in love with my man M’s headphones.

Let’s talk about him for a second.

I love that man more than I love life. He’s the constant, driving force in my life. I wake up for him. I work for him. I live to love him and make him happy. I will always answer his call and he mine. Every song I hear I’m either singing it to him or he’s singing it to me. He is with me even when he isn’t. He’s no longer known as my man M. He is Matt. He needs no alias. I feel it in my crotch.

But seriously, I’m just waiting for my people to say “fuck this bitch. She never answers the phone!” when all I really want to tell them is that I’m depressed/spoiled/stupid and am waiting until later. Later, when I have better things to say. Later when I’m not so negative. Not so into music or something.

End melodrama (or so you think).

Someone else answered the door and now we have company. My gorgeous friend Crystal’s here and now everybody’s watching Scrubs. I guess I should stop being depressed/spoiled/stupid and join the living. The bunch of nice people in my living room. But the music from the ear phones is so good. I may just stay a little while longer…

I am cooler than my roomates

2006-01-14T13:42:00.000-06:00

I swear, I am getting so spoiled by this damn gorgeous weather. If I see a hint of a cloud formation and have to put on a jacket, I go into a rage so scary my friends threaten to call A&E's Intervention on me. I could do without the cold weather altogether, really -- just counting the days until I can throw on my yellow polka dotted bikini and lounge by the pool.

On a totally unrelated note (but seriously, when are my notes actually related?), I am completely distracted by "Sir Psycho Sexy" in my ears. I never wear ear phones, but the boys (those evil, evil boys who live in my house) who are watching "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" kindly reminded me that there are headphones by the computer. I get the hint, jerks -- you want me to listen to my music quietly while you watch your dorky Saturday afternoon movie. Now you get to listen to me sing along sounding like a deaf-mute, humming the parts I don't know, while bobbing my head. I am so much cooler than them.

I am ready for another vacation. Work is so crazy right now -- my days are plagued by fantasies of being one of those smug-faced, backpack-wearing SMU students whose biggest concern is managing their time between watching "Famiy Guy" and writing a mediocre 10-page paper on Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "The Little Prince" and figure out a subtle way to convince the reader that he on drugs when he wrote that without seeming an expert on drugs. When I graduated, I knew I wanted to go back and get my master's, but I'd have to work first. Only this time I don't think I'd go to Brownsville if I had six or seven days to go wherever I want, although I admit I'd be tempted. It's the Catholic guilt that calls me back every time -- the little voice tells me, "you MUST see your family! It's your fault you moved far away from them...you need to go back every chance you get." I write this as I look up "Te Deum" on Limewire. Oy.

These are the places I'd go:

- London. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'd have to control my weather-related tantrums by the time I get there because I heard there's hardly any sun and there's not much chance I'd get to wear my yellow polka dotted bikini, but I'll make a compromise for the chance to have some real tea and experience the "mind the gap" phenomenon in person.

- Las Vegas. I've never been. I heard it's fun.

- New York. Shows, shopping, the all-around fabulousness of it. I'm afraid that if I go, I'd never want to leave.

- Paris. I've actually been there, but it doesn't count because I was changing planes en route to Rome. I saw the Eiffel Tower from the plane and watched beautiful French teenagers talking to each other on the shuttle bus. The thing is that if I go to one great European city, I'd want to go to them all since I'm already over there. And I'd want to know French like a native, so either I pretend to be a deaf-mute or study and practice really hard for three or four years before I even think about going to Paris. Or maybe just wait until America has a president who's not hated worldwide.

On that note, I'm going to Dave and Buster's to play Dance Dance Revolution. Ciao!

My version of Doogie Howser blogging

2006-01-11T11:51:00.000-06:00

Yesterday a dog growled at me and I decided that my favorite swear word right now is "cunt."

Today I learned

2006-01-08T22:14:00.000-06:00

...that you can cure hiccups by eating a big slab of peanut butter. This discovery trumps the random assumption that people get bad breath when they're constipated.

I never believed the latter. Nor will it ever be proven.

[A bit of advice: don't think about the random assumption when you're trying to cure your hiccups using the new discovery. It may lead to a messy carpet.]

Spam a lot

2006-01-04T18:55:00.000-06:00

Why is it that every time I eat something at work, someone has to stop by and comment on it?

"What are you eating? 'Spam'????!?!?!! Grooooooooss!"

It's sad because they don't know that they're the gross ones.

2006, interrupted

2006-01-01T00:45:00.000-06:00

Seeing how it's New Years and it's a little past 12 and I'm at home with my only company being a glass of wine and my man M who's sleeping upstairs like a party POOPER, I'm inclined to look back on 2005.

I'll remember 2005 as the year I:

- Quit my shitty job in San Antonio
- Went to Italy a week later
- Started my life over in Dallas
- Danced on a bar
- Became the queen of bullshit by adopting what they call "good work ethic" (meaning not being negative about the menial shit I have to do at work, gossip or being all around pissed off).

***************************
Update: Two friends just came over and we had a little party complete with champagne and flash photography. I'm not telling you about the pictures we took, but I will tell you that boys would have paid to be in the room. Happy New Year, my sexy dahlings.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the resaca

2005-12-29T00:07:00.000-06:00

Surreptitious - done, made or acquired by stealth. Synonym: clandestine, secret. (Webster's)

Now you know and knowing is half the battle.

I'm drinking a glass of water and going to my bed where I will try very hard not to dream about lakes, rivers or resacas*.

* (A resaca is an elongated inlet of water. Brownsville is full of them. Apparently that word is not in the Webster's dictionary.)

The fat man in red might get a tan if he sticks around

2005-12-25T12:14:00.000-06:00

It's 68 degrees and sunny. I'm going outside to play now.

Merry Christmas everybody!

Where have you been, who do you know, who have you seen?

2005-12-23T11:00:00.000-06:00

When I arrived in my hometown Brownsville (the one that summons me whenever there's a break or holiday) last night, I was greeted by my gorgeous mother. We went to baggage claim, where many others were with their own families, exchanging hugs, looking happy and tired and relieved to be home in the land of Spanglish and good food.

First person I saw
My hand was on my mom's shoulder when I saw a single young man with touseled long hair and horn-rimmed glasses carrying a bag that read "Germany." I knew him -- he's my friend Lib's boyfriend who surely was flying in from Germany to spend holiday break with her. Now that I think about it, it's kind of odd that his bag would read "Germany" and not "Deutschland" or something. Maybe it's easier to find merchandise with your country's name in the U.S. because it's only here that people look at the things you wear/carry and think you're very global and sophisticated for having something with another country's name on it. But the German boyfriend happens to be from over there so he's global anyway. So there you have it. Anyway, I called Lib and approached the German beau, who looked rather wild-eyed and tired. Not knowing what was going on, he kept asking, "where's Lib-ah-tee?" My excitement to be home, to see him, to hopefully see my friends might have been too much for this poor chap. I hugged him enthusiastically and said, "you must be so tired" and then Lib and her room mate Nic showed up and after making plans to see each other at their "cheesy sweater" party on Friday, we were gone.

Next people I saw
My mom took me straight to the bar, where my brother was playing and my dad was saving a seat for my weary ass. As I showed my ID and passed the bouncer called "Shrek," I saw the first boy I ever kissed. He's the kind of boy I'm not embarrassed to have had my first kiss with -- he didn't turn out to be homely or a loser -- but I am embarrassed about how immature I was at the tender age of 12 when I broke up with him and called him "gay" in front of his friends. I run into him every few years and he's always gracious and a tad on the defensive side when I ask about how he's doing. "I own a condo." That's what he said when I ran into him last month over Thanksgiving break at the very same spot.

I waved and he put his hand on my waist and gave me the Brownsville nice-to-see-you kiss on the cheek. There was no talk of his condo this time and I said I'm meeting my dad and moved on.

I found my dad sitting with two girls my age (friends of my brother's) and ordered a Dos Equis with lime. We tried talking over the music and laughed at random things when I saw an old friend from high school.

Other people I saw
The thing I remember most about this particular guy is his somewhat blind confidence -- we were in choir together and every day he told me, "leave your boyfriend and run away with me." Then he would come to my boyfriend's car and ask if could go to lunch with us. Most of the time we let him.

After high school, he started hanging out with my brother. He was the singer in one of my brother’s bands and had a strange voice, kind of a mix between Creed’s Scott Stapp and Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder. When he sang, girls seemed to like him, but he had a bizarre habit of touching his pants zipper. I wonder if anyone noticed or cared. Eventually the band disbanded and he went off to college.

When I saw him, I was genuinely happy to see him. I’ve always seen him as a more intense, prone to craziness version of my brother. He had a beer in his hand and when I asked him how he was doing, he said, “I’m doing better than I have in a long, long time.” No talk of a condo, just a real answer. He sat at my table of interesting characters (my dad, a quiet teacher girl my age – everyone my age in this town is either a teacher or working for their parents – , my brother’s girlfriend and her best friend) and told me how talented he thinks my brother is.

The band started to play “Creep” and my little friend got up to dance. Then I witnessed something very “creepy.” A 40-something woman wearing a black t-shirt and jeans that accentuated her very prominent camel-toe came to dance with him. He was good natured enough to go along with it, but somewhere along the way, his arms were wrapped around her thick waist and he slow danced with this stranger throughout the rest of the song. He mouthed the words, “…I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here. I don’t belong here…” with the conviction of a southern Baptist minister as he held on tight. The quiet teacher girl and I looked at each other and watched him dodge his new friend the rest of the night.

I could tell you more about how later on I saw one of camel-toe lady’s friends come out in her wheelchair and sway to “Glycerin” and nearly knocking over a microphone; or four really tall white guys who looked like they got lost on their way to Sweden; or a guy who was in my man M’s and my World Literature class six years ago whose name and face I couldn’t remember. But I just wanted to tell you about the real weirdos, creeps and interesting cats.

You know, the ones I am lucky enough to know.

In case the fat man in red reads this blog...

2005-12-17T19:31:00.000-06:00

I want:

A scarf
Running shoes (light weight, size 7 1/2)
"Art of Copywriting" book
Hand towels (gold, for the powder room)
Gardenia-scented Bath & Body Works products
80s-style workout shorts (NO spandex please)
Red panties (for New Year's...it's tradition)
A gift certificate to a spa (for a massage preferably)
New bedding (I'm thinking white theme with Mexican-style crocheted top blanket)
A special rag to clean my gee-tar
Lucky jeans because they make asses look great

I'm off to put this list on my refrigerator. And then I'll do some laundry. Exciting stuff, I tell ya.

Thank you, thank you...you people are too kind

2005-12-10T10:10:00.000-06:00

In the last 24 hours, these things were said to me.

- "These are better than my mom's!" (quothe Jessica in reference to my deviled eggs that apparently are better than her mom's.)

- "You're sexy like a girl." (quothe my lovely man M who is so yummy I will eat him, especially if he keeps saying crazy things like that.)

I'm easy to please.

Premature lunacy brought on by indulgent lunacy

2005-12-07T17:12:00.000-06:00

Have you ever been so depressed that you actually kind of like being depressed? That your big roaring cry feels so good, you can't imagine anything better than sobbing and blowing your nose? That you look in the mirror and think your pink nose looks nice on you?

And then it's over and you feel like a new person, like you can blog or face your biggest fear or something.

I've indulged myself today (hm, Lecram -- must've been reading my mind). Work was let out at 1:00 and my coworker and I went to have a drink at the sort of place that forgives you when you go have a drink at 1:00 in the afternoon. Yes, ladies and gentlemen -- a Cajun dive bar. I had four Scotch and waters. Don't look at me like that -- mojitos aren't allowed in the cold weather!

And while the drinks might have brought on this sudden bought of lunacy, it's been building for a while. And I do believe this lunacy is coming to an end. It has to. Although I cannot describe it or put it in a category, if I HAD to, I'd say I've just had a sort of breakdown -- the kind that everyone needs once every four or five months. Mini breakdowns that literally break one down so one can build oneself up again so that one may resemble a phoenix of sorts. From our teary ashes we rise and are able to be ourselves again: normal, happy, loving, free. If one can get over the exhaustion that comes with the heaving and blowing.

On a lighter note, I have a name for my guitar. It's not definite, but for the moment, I've decided on Paco Woody Silverman. And last night I was antisocial enough to comment on other blogs, look up guitar chords and look at jobs on monster.com. Not that I'm looking -- old habits die hard, that's all.

I think...

2005-12-06T19:08:00.000-06:00

1. People talk about me. And the less I talk to them, the more shit they make up. And I care because...
2. Winter is dumb and it's stupid, too.
3. I've been way too negative lately.
3 1/2. I'm fucking whiney and need to grow up.
4. But it's only because I'm going through a lot (which isn't all that much...all work-related I guess, and the icky holidays that make me miss home so much I just want to take a big nap and wake up when the summer comes back). Stomping my foot as I say that.
5. Pantyhose are just as comfortable as socks.
6. I need to write more.
7. I need to cook more.
8. It's going to snow tonight.
9. My imagination is my salvation sometimes.
10. I see where this is going...I'm going to be antisocial and write tonight. Maybe I'll even decide on a name for my guitar. (I promise when I come back I'll be more chipper. Yucky, yucky cold weather.) Stay warm, homefry.

Quote of the night

2005-11-21T21:44:00.000-06:00

Big C, the spunky hair dresser neighbor and I were hanging out in the garage tonight and the topic of conversation turned to her 21st birthday this weekend. In telling us her stories of the weekend, she blessed us with this gem:

"I tend to dance a lot when I've been drinking. Especially when the Spice Girls are on."

She is my new best friend.

If turkey doesn't tickle your fancy...

2005-11-20T17:31:00.000-06:00

Make some kick-ass shrimp cocktail.

3 avocados
1 onion, chopped
1 lb of tiny shrimp
1/2 cup chopped cilantro
2 bottles cocktail sauce
orange juice (add by instinct)
lime juice (add by instinct)

Blog things says...

2005-11-15T20:49:00.000-06:00

Your Seduction Style: Au Natural

You rank up there with your seduction skills, though you might not know it. That's because you're a natural at seduction. You don't realize your power! The root of your natural seduction power: your innocence and optimism.

You're the type of person who happily plays around and creates a unique little world. Little do you know that your personal paradise is so appealing that it sucks people in. You find joy in everything - so is it any surprise that people find joy in you?

You bring back the inner child in everyone you meet with your sincere and spontaneous ways. Your childlike (but not childish) behavior also inspires others to care for you. As a result, those who you befriend and date tend to be incredibly loyal to you.

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

I got this while perusing the fun and lovely Kalani's site, whose blog is so super popular I should be annoyed by her. But I don't because she's that cool.

Oh but Mario Lopez's dimples were so cute!

2005-11-09T22:43:00.000-06:00

I'm exhausted. It's my third week of full-time employment and my experience so far has been mentally and physically draining. To wake up before the sun rises is just plain obscene in my eyes and to move nonstop from the second my eyes open until sometimes the end of the night (because I live in a loud house full of action and stories of other peoples' work-related adventures/frustrations, whatever you want to call them) is slowly turning my hair white.

I need another weekend getaway in Mexico.

While I realize it was not that long ago that I complained about how bored, broke and unfulfilled I was when I had no job, it's amazing how little of the sun I see these days and how difficult it is to balance work, life, dinner, keep in touch with loved ones and fight the urge to ask my company for a scooter so I can dart around the office "as per" -- isn't "as per" such an office word?!?!? yuck! -- the bosses' requests at lightning speed. I'd get my work done more quickly, but somehow I think that would only encourage the bosses (of which I have, oh, 87) to give me more work.

Am I complaining? Maybe. But it's only out of sheer exhaustion. It's the kind of exhaustion that breeds warmer feelings like fulfillment, direction, self worth. When I come home, trade my heels for my flip flops and make my way back to the garage with my glass of wine in hand, I feel like I've earned it. And when I get all stupid and slurry-mouthed, I actually have stories to tell that have nothing to do with how cute the Guatemalan baby was on Adoption Stories today. Or what inane thing Mario Lopez said on Pet Star. Or how stretched out Erica Kane's face looks when she's trying to be indignant on All My Children. (Seriously, I used to talk about these things with firm conviction.)

These days I talk about work and what delusions I may have of a budding career, which is not nearly as interesting or scandalous as reality TV or soap operas, but it gives me a sense of purpose. And it makes me sound less shallow and more, um, self-involved...which is much more fun.

The wine and cheese party for one

2005-11-01T23:45:00.000-06:00

My dinner tonight.

The cold weather makes me...

2005-10-31T23:15:00.000-06:00

Want to stay in bed until 10 am.
Want to wear a funny hat.
Miss my Italy afterglow in my San Antonio apartment.
Smoke cigarettes inside with the window cracked open.
Want to hug someone in the evening while watching TV.
Live for sunny days, even if they're like 65 degrees.

(At this point, I'll take anything.)

Four truths and a lie

2005-10-19T09:26:00.000-05:00

In the past seven days...

- I've fulfilled my lifelong dream of seeing Oklahoma. I was not disappointed. (Pictures and stories of our recent weekend camping adventure to come very soon.)

- I've been offered to go full-time at work and I told them I'd think about it. (Although today I'm going to have the "talk" with them and tell them "yes! yes! yes!" Wish me luck.)

- I've tried on many beautiful dresses trying to find the perfect one for my cousin's wedding in Mexico this weekend. It's out there. I just know it.

- I've decided that posting via bulleted lists is a time saver, although I promise one day you'll see much more out of this blog than bulleted lists and half-nekkid pictures. One day...

- I've wrassled a raccoon to the ground and shown him who was boss.

Stories and pictures to come soon. I promise. Ciao!

The bulletin board says...

2005-10-12T18:47:00.000-05:00

Psssst! I want to tell you something...

- The interview went well. Now I'm fretting over the Spanish translation test. Ay, Dios mio!
- My man M loves his new job. When I ask him what he does all day, he says, "tell people what to do and watch them do it." That's sexy.
- When I told my supervisor about my interview, she was not happy. That makes me want to tell her, "what the feck, lady?!!! Did you expect me to work one part-time job forever?!!!" Instead, I smiled and played nice all week, pretending to not notice the cold shoulder that I suspect she's told everyone to give me. Fuck 'em. The entire lot of 'em.
- I just made Hamburger Helper Beef Stroganoff for dinner and I must go now so I can eat it. Later I'm going to sift through my pics and choose an HNT photo to post tonight. I spent one very intimate hour this afternoon with my camera, only to be interrupted by room mate Big C, who came home from work early today. When I heard the garage door open, I gathered my clothes and ran to the bathroom, flashing back to ages 16 through 20, when I discovered the joys of nakedness and lived with my parents and whoever I was naked with lived with parents, too. Except this time no one was naked with me. Sigh.

To answer your question, yes, I will have the chocolate platter and beer

2005-10-05T09:25:00.000-05:00

So...yes, I've been away for nearly a week...

And yes, I have 35 minutes before I have to be at work and I'm not showered and powdered...

And yes, I'm wasting my precious, precious time to tell you this:

My man got a job!

And I'm beside myself with joy. It's like everything is thrown back into balance. I can stop worrying about EVERYTHING and just breathe. Yesterday I was told that our washer and dryer were going to be taken away because we're po' and can't afford to rent them. Big C, M and I have been sort of moping, looking at holes in our shoes, looking for old CDs and movies to sell because all of a sudden, we're so poor that we're like those smudgy-faced kids who hang out in front of pastry shops in old-world France or something and look in while rich ladies with white hats fan themselves and wrinkle their noses at the eye-sore that is us...

But no more! We can wipe our faces clean of po'ness and march right into those pastry shops and wrinkle OUR noses at those ladies and order the biggest platter of chocolatey richness...with a side of beer. Because we're American like that.

Planty has a sister

2005-09-24T21:10:00.000-05:00

Dear diary:

I like Ally now. She was happy to see me come home tonight, which in turn made me happy to see her. She is not a house pest anymore, although she does stink a little bit. But I can just breathe out of my mouth, that's no problem. As long as her tail wags when she sees me, I don't care how bad she smells.

Yours truly,

Ms. Deconstructionist

Can you spot Planty, my REAL pet?

2005-09-24T11:24:00.000-05:00

I have a house pest this weekend. Her name is Ally and she's a Hurricane Rita evacuee from Houston.

She's Big C's brother's dog and she's staying with us while he weathers the storm elsewhere.

I'm not a dog person. My only experience living with a dog was when I was six. After begging my parents to get a dog, they finally got one, which I named "Chiquita" and she was very sick so we had to keep her in the bathroom and that's where she stayed for the three weeks that we kept her...for three weeks I was afraid to go to the bathroom because every time I went, Chiquita would bark at me, which was really frustrating because sometimes you just want to shit in peace, even if you're a little kid. The end.

Big C convinced a reluctant T & M that Ally would not be a bother; that she's a good dog; that we wouldn't even notice her. And he was right.

For example, Big C is at the mall interviewing for a weekend job. Although he didn't take Ally with him, I don't notice her hanging around -- because she's downstairs waiting for him to get back. This is Ally before she went downstairs to get away from the paparazzi.

She has a one-track mind, this one.

And the storm party is canceled. It's not even raining. So I'm gonna go with plan B and lay on the couch and watch "The Graduate" or something. I may even invite Ally to watch with me.

The weekend after Labor Day -- highlights and photos

2005-09-11T11:06:00.000-05:00

It's actually quiet this morning -- which is rare these days.

One thing I have had to get used to in this new apartment is the constant noise: the squeaky outside gate, tires going over the gate rails, honk-happy drivers, the hum of the nearby highway... I suppose it is all vehicle-related noise and with gas prices rising, maybe these people will stop using their vehicles. Or maybe they'll drive more angrily, vexing me further.

Despite the noise, I now feel comfortable in my new apartment. After being here two weeks, it feels like a home and I have now located practically all of my things. It sounds trite, but there's this box that I have that's full of old papers, school work, journals from when I was 13 and really chatty and every day was a 5-page entry, even though I had no life because I was 13. I couldn't find this box when we lived in small-town-north-of-Dallas in Big C's old apartment for the six weeks that we were there mostly because everything else was in boxes and everything looked the same and well, who wants to dig through boxes for the sake of nostalgia? So, I've located it and now I feel complete.

I did laundry for the first time in this new place. It's always a little weird to do familiar chores but have to come up with a new routine to do them. For example, usually I'd load the washer, wander over to the kitchen, wash dishes, prep dinner or something, and wait for the rinse cycle to put in the fabric softener. Then some more bumbling around until the clothes have to go in the dryer. Now that my washer and dryer live upstairs, it's somewhat awkward -- either I feel I have to stay upstairs to keep an eye on every cycle or run up and down the stairs checking to see "is it on rinse? Is it???" Ay.

And there's kind of a plumbing problem here, too. Whenever I pull the magical stick on the spout that turns bath water into shower water, I never know what's going to happen. Either the water stays in faucet limbo, making a constipated hissing noise, or the water flows triumphiantly. Whenever I get water on the first try, I feel like I won at the slot machines. Plus, the water pressure is excellent, so I'm a big winner.

Big C has been out of town this weekend, so my man M and I had the place to ourselves. When left to our own devices, we can get pretty crazy...

My plate of yummy filth.

Dessert. (That's right, C -- we smoked inside. It was Friday night and we were paralyzed by the yummy filth! Resistance was futile...)

Three cheers for romantic dinners with the one you love and Barbershop!

The butterflies in my stomach tell me that I need to stop procrastinating and get more sleep.

2005-09-06T09:19:00.000-05:00

I'm back and in a much better mood, thank you very much to a long weekend, a house-warming-slash-Labor Day-slash-we have a garage now barbeque and the presence of luverly friends.

I have to say that I'm pleased at the moment, even though I woke up way too early and am dressed quite dreadfully today. I'm also agonizing over the fact that I still have ten thousand things to do and still haven't done them. Instead I'm bouncing between "blogging" and staring out the window, sighing every now and then because I'm a sleepy procrastinator. Who's dressed badly.

My man M should get word today on whether or not he gets this job. Oh the butterflies in my stomach!

Raw, strong and ghetto...with a little bit of crazy

2005-08-23T16:58:00.000-05:00

I have been in a mood lately.

I find it fun to drive home from work and pretend I'm crazy -- shooing people who get in my way, wagging my finger as if to say "nooooooo" to a child if they do something wrong, or screaming, "mooooooove!" at the top of my lungs to the bitch in front of me, chatting away on the cell phone...

No one fucks with you if they think you're crazy. It's the Big D, after all.

On another note, I may be in the process of being inducted into the Proofer Club. One proofer came up to me and told me that they're thinking of a nickname for me. That's swell. I'd like something raw, strong, ghetto, like "T-dawg" or "TJ" -- short for "tan-ja," which is a story in itself. I'll tell you anyway...I've got the time.

At my former place of employment where I was for the most part miserable, but kind of miss because I made some good friends there, one guy started calling me "tan-ja." When I asked him about it, he said, "because in Spanish, the "y" is pronounced with a "j" sound. I told him that's the reason my cousins in Mexico call me that, too. So, for short, he started with the "TJ" business and I felt all included in the Mexican cool club and stuff. God, I miss working with Hispanics.

But, I can't suggest any nicknames to the new proofers because that's not what a nickname's all about. But at the same time, I can't count on them to come up with something raw, strong and ghetto, either. I'll probably get stuck with "Faerie" or something.

I knew this guy in college who called himself "Logan," when his real name was Orlando. Totally uncool. When I asked him why "Logan," he hestitantly told me because of Wolverine from the X-men. That totally demystified the whole "Logan" thing, but I didn't ask any more questions because he was from Laredo and he could cut me.
Peace out, beetches!

Keeses,
T-dawg/TJ/Faerie