A crazed love letter.

Dear Rain,

What happened to you? What happened to us? I was pretty excited last Friday. I mean, you were supposed to show up on Saturday evening and stay through Sunday. Okay, okay, you were only going to be one inch at most, but I'll take what I can get. You'd feel so good, I know it. I even made a list of all the super-special things I would do while you were around: sort laundry, mop the floors, finally watch Highlander III on Netflix PlayInstantly. To seal the deal, I even washed my car.

I told everyone you were coming for the weekend and I'd probably be holed up. Well, now you've just embarrassed me. Not only did you not show up in Austin, I actually read that the Texas air is so hot and dry, your tropical storm actually evaporated when you hit land. So. It's true then. You never really intended on being here in the first place. LIES.

I thought we had something special. I thought it might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I don't understand what I did wrong. I guess you were too busy giving 7 inches to Chicago the weekend before. CHEATER.

The truth is, I'm desperate. It's been so long and I just can't remember what it feels like to have you on my skin. Never again will I curse you for ruining my hair, forcing me to walk groceries to my car without an umbrella, or making my dogs smell like they rolled in the moldy, decomposing intestines of a very large rodent. I take it all back! You know how it is, sometimes in the moment we all say things we don't mean. Right?

Anyway, you know where to find me. It's 108º out there today so if you could please, please find it in your heart to take me back, I promise I'll never take you for granted ever again.

Love,
P.

A hot disaster.

Today, the Littler One and I went on an "adwentcha" to the Zoo. We met up with the Older One and her summer day camp group. Yes, these summer months will see me only caring for one child that is not my own, rather than two. Accordingly, my happiness level has recently and notably increased two-fold...

That is until I found myself amongst 14 children under the age of six, all wearing neon yellow t-shirts. Other than the three teachers, I was one of two "parents" that chose to come. Now I see why: child alone is crazy, child(ren) in large groups are insufferable. However, they had their moments of cuteness (I think there was one) and, perhaps most surprisingly, their moments of astute wisdom. Here is what humans who will not legally drink until 2027, taught me this morning:

• When the big peacock poops on the deck of the Reptile & Amphibian house, it's called a Poop Deck. No relation to naval architecture and superstructures of ships.
• If you're very hot and sweaty, you should "take a little dip in ice cold water."
  
• If you're the kid who shouts at everyone for mispronouncing "jaguar," you're destined to be an endlessly irritating grown-up. Fact.
• If you're the kid who calls the small boy with a gap in his teeth "Mister Annoying Pants," you're destined to be an enormous asshole. You will also get lots and lots of girls.
  
• Roosters will eat American cheese. So will peacocks.
  
• When a lemur raises his tail, backs his butt up to you, and makes a (misleadingly) cute snorting noise, walk away. Better yet, run.
• At the Axis Deer, it's okay to pick up the light brown pellets from the ground and feed them to the deer. Don't touch the dark brown pellets.
• Pushing friends is never okay. We do not push!
• And, if you can't keep your hands on your own body, you have to move away. *can we make this a sign to post in bars?*
• Tigers in enclosures are not scary. But in a hypothetical situation, a tiger right next to you is very scary.
• Also, Murphy has sunglasses, Chap-Stic, and sunblock in her monkey purse. Just so you know.

Murphy also told me that she was sweaty, thirsty, and "a hot disaster." And in this 100-degree heat, sister, I couldn't agree more.

Tree of life.

A couple weekends ago, I went back home. Not North Texas where most of my family now lives, but the place where –after an exhausting labor for my mom– I came into the world. McLean, Virginia. I've not been back since we left in December, 1992.

I took PB with me and we walked around old Chesterbrook Park. I remember the sound of slapping sticks on bark, the trees where we built our world. The woods don't look quite the same, but that's ok. The smell hasn't changed. Wet leaves and damp dirt. Next time you cut into a raw potato, hold your nose up to the flesh and that's the smell of my childhood.

*A disclaimer here: I'm about to break blog rule #1 of brevity and #2 of emotional detachment. But some things are worth telling in long-form. And any writer (or journalist, dare I say it!) will tell you everything is subjective, everything is touched by our experience...

When I was a little thing in Virginia, I watched some black and white movie with my mom – Jimmy Stewart or Carey Grant, can't remember– in which the protagonist lives with his mother well into adulthood. I had recently learned I had an older sister, whom died as a baby, and I struggled to understand how that could be. Only old people died. So I told my mom I would be young forever just like the movie and would never move away. I would live with her and dad forever.

"Of course you'll move away. That's part of growing up," she said.

Well. If that was growing up, I didn't want any part of it. The thought of moving away from my parents, and my siblings growing old and all of us one day dying sank my little heart like a stone in the ocean. I decided that 4 years old was plenty for me thankyouverymuch and I would stop right there. It was a simple enough solution and I was astonished at how easy it was to outwit my mom and the rest of humanity! My goodness, hadn't anyone thought of stopping time before? So for the next year, my family had to keep up the charade that I was 4 years old, long after my 5th birthday.

More than twenty years later and I still question how can this be? How can it be that some of us live and some of us die too soon? Do we ever really die?

I called my parents to ask where I could find my sister. My mom said, "Fairfax Memorial Park. That's where Michelle lives." Of course, of course, of course. Lives. I felt embarrassed for asking where she was buried. Do parents ever bury a child and leave them entirely there? Do any of us? Graves are for the living, a place marker. But no grave can hold a spirit. I believe in reincarnation but even if you don't, we never really die.

I think when we left Virginia, the Memorial Park was our last stop on our way out of town. Or was it? Did I make that up? The Alzheimer's people I work with sometimes fabricate memories to fill in missing holes in their past; it helps them make sense of things. Did we really stop to say goodbye or was I a second grader trying to make sense of my world and death and family and leaving?

Now I found her headstone and did the first thing my hands commanded: I cleaned her off. On my knees in the grass, I swept away the dirt and leaves. Instinct. Then I sat back in wonder at how connected I could feel to someone I never knew.

And then I struggled. What conversation do you have with someone you've never spoken to? I did my best and left her a note:

The family loves you. I bet you would have been beautiful. Mom and Dad still miss you everyday, especially in pictures.
Your sister,
Phyllis

I was sad to leave her there with none of our family around. But that is where she lives and –like my Mom and Dad– I will have to take her with me, even if I still don't know why some of us live and some of us go too soon.

PB said, "I'm happy she has a tree. If you think about it, she's part of it now as it grows, she's in the ground and part of the roots."

And I think that is how my sister would be. Strong, able to weather the storm. Blooming, healthy, changing, growing. Reaching and striving for more.

Sister, I'm so happy you have a tree.

The magic of Three.

Some things are so disheartening, so awfully frightening, you just have to laugh– Alzheimer's disease, global warfare, reality television, Ann Coulter.

But the reality is, more than 5 million Americans suffer from Alzheimer's disease today. 14% of all people over the age of 71 have some form of dementia. Alzheimer's could steal the minds of 1 out of 8 baby boomers, and by 2050, 959,000 people could be diagnosed each year.

Still laughing?

But things like Alzheimer's, MCI, and dementia inspire me. They inspire in me a sense of urgency, an immediate need to take down people's stories, before the memories disappear with time. I've always been a storyteller, and there is no greater joy for me...a well told story transports us, challenges us, and stirs our soul.

Last week, we talked about nostalgia. Mostly, I just sat and listened to the random memories but I also heard from participants that life was simpler years ago:

There were 3 makes of car. Ford, Chevy, Buick.
There were 3 television stations. ABC, CBS, NBC.
There were 3 churches in town. Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ.

Before television, people sat on the porch and talked to each other. Or kids listened to the radio and used their imagination. You could try and pull pranks in the neighborhood, but someone would always say, "Eugene Smith, I'll tell your father so you better think twice!"

Today, I learned that my mother cannot whistle. I was astonished. Not because she can't do it, but because I had no idea. What else do I not know about this lovely, complex person with whom I shared a body for nine months? Who cut my sandwiches into triangles?

Here's a challenge: get with someone dear to you (phone, email, or face-to-face) and ask them to tell you something most people wouldn't know about them. Or ask them what their morning routine is. How do they take their coffee? Ask them anything. The important thing is to write it down. And do it over and over again with other people.

There is disappointingly little resources for this sort of thing (I smell a personal project in the air!) but here are a couple sites to get you started:
Bicentennial Family History Project
Grub Street Memoir Project
GaGa Sisterhood
StoryCorps

Because if we don't tell each others stories, who will?

How not to write.

I spend a lot of time writing and editing. An inordinate amount, really. As of late, I've been editing submissions for a small publication here in town, both fiction and non-fiction. I also have to say here that I am utterly stunned at people whose life goal is to finish their Master's and pursue a PhD, yet cannot construct a sentence. I mean, it's bad. Astonishingly bad. I know a guy –nice guy– who is on that particular path, and wears the same, sweaty, Grateful Dead t-shirt every week and is about as articulate as an uncooked chicken wing. That is to say, not very. Yet PhD is on his list of attainable goals. Huh? I once seriously considered a doctorate, but decided against it. I think most people should, in the interest of societal decency. But I digress.....I am always learning –and not the perfect writer, by any stretch– but allow me to recommend some things to writers submitting for publication:

• One exclamation point is enough. Actually, don't use them at all. Really. "I couldn't believe it!!!!!!!!! I got a pony for Christmas!!!!!!!" Is never a good idea. In fact, I try to avoid exclamation points at all costs, even in dialogue. Your writing should create a tone and voice without needing that much help.
• Don't give me a prologue, timeline, or excessive detail. Does it really matter that it was Thursday, May 24, 1971? Probably not. Or perhaps you could work this into the story via scene setting? Please? Also, it probably doesn't matter that the narrator makes six dollars an hour and spent three dollars on breakfast and has $936 in savings. Listing these things is especially bad. I. Don't. Care.
  
• Show me, don't tell me. I'm so sorry to hear that Johnny was devastated. Now what else are you going to say for 4,000 words? Show me devastation in facial expressions, dialogue, physical movements, internal dialogue. Anything but one solitary sentence.
• Don't tell a story from the point of view of an animal.
  
• Don't write your entire story in italics. It gives me head-hurt.
• Don't use the same distinctive adjective twice in one paragraph. It probably wouldn't hurt to put an entire page between them, in fact.
• Cliches are ok, as long as you put a new spin on them with dynamic characters...but then they wouldn't be cliches, would they? I know the little girl who's daddy ignored her will grow up to be an alcohol-addicted-attention-whore. I get it.
  
• Never put words in all caps. I know Elizabeth Gilbert did it in Eat. Pray. Love. and she's laughing all the way to the bank, true, but it still annoyed the shit out of me when she did it. Please see bullet #1 re: exclamation points. PLAIN OBNOXIOUS.
• Run-on sentences and fragments are excellent. But only if you know what you're doing. Proceed with caution.
• Listen up, literary journalists: I adore you. I am one of you. We get to be more subjective than news journalists. But please, please avoid going into an overly-emotional diatribe. For god's sake keep your writing clean, tight, and focused. Thank you.
• Most importantly: remember, all rules are meant to be broken.
  

Oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

Usually, I don't post an entire poem if it's especially long, but this one (from our workshop last week) is too good. Besides, it's dead without all the moving pieces:

Oranges
By Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted–
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket.
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
in mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, for some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

We started with the prompt, "I remember..." pretty simple, but effective. We asked what this poem reminded them of. A group with memory/cognitive challenges means we frequently go completely off the tracks, but that's ok–

Carl remembered the prestige of having a nickel in your pocket -all the candy you could buy- and an old ice cream maker on a summer day (like I said, we get off track). For those of you who have no idea what such a thing looks like, please see photo above. Some of my fondest childhood memories are churning ice cream. Only ours was kind of wonky, so one of the younger children (read: me or my baby sister, Clare) had to sit on top of the churn while it was being cranked. We'd fold up a swim towel so our butt cheeks wouldn't freeze. This story made Carl laugh. He has a good laugh, like a story book.

Lee told us about a time he was skiing in Switzerland and got lost. He ended up crossing the border into Italy. I've spent a significant time living in places where I plainly do not belong, speak the language, or know how to count the currency. My first trip to Amsterdam, I wandered into the Red Light District where I was offered cocaine and a chance to prostitute myself. I think maybe snow skiing into the Italian Alps would have been nicer.

I'm listening to these stories and wondering if it's just me, or are some of the participants looking older? I swear Vic is suddenly aging, but still I hope it's just me. I want these people to be timeless, to go nowhere. Because they may not always stay on task, but what they remember is golden to me. Golden because it reminds me that sometimes life isn't about sticking to the path. It's about getting lost and figuring it out. And if we didn't get lost, would our paths ever cross?

It's about sharing the story. It's about ice cream churns. It's about all those lovely, simple things that tie us together. The memories that maybe have nothing to do with anything, or nothing to do with each other but –across generations– make us laugh nonetheless. It's about oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

That is what it's about.

Intuition.

This morning, I spent two hours with an intuitive. *cue my parents rolling their eyes* I won't go into all the details, but I will say I left feeling energized, confident, inspired and lighter. Mostly, I just listened to what she was sensing, but she did ask me a couple things. Without being prompted, she felt strongly I had a connection to Africa and should return soon. I told her I had wanted to do return this year, but "put it on the back burner" as they say. She asked what I was afraid of. I told her I am afraid of failure, of shaky finances. She asked me for evidence.

"Evidence of what?" I said.

"Evidence that you can't. Evidence that you cannot create and do. Evidence that it cannot be."

I was stumped. There is no evidence.


...here's a short bit she left with me, and I think we could all use it:

TRANSITION

Don't resist your destiny.
Don't fight your way to it.
Tell the universe you are ready and waiting for what is next.
Then surrender.
Be still and listen.
Allow a moment of quiet everyday so you can hear.
Be ready.
Be open.
Allow and create.
If you meet resistance or experience pain, you veered off path.
Stop and listen again and again.
Move only when it is time.
There is no need to run to or from.
Float to what is next.
Invite in your destiny and then practice gratitude with grace.

Thursday, Favorite Day.

Well, it's official: I'm in love with the participants of my Thursday workshop. That means Thursday is my new favorite day of the week. You can pretty much anticipate a weekly update relating to this group...

Per the usual both classes had me laughing out loud. The nice thing about them is that they're too old to give a f**k about what they say. I admire this. It's honest. It's endearing. Often it's funny. Sometimes it's sad.

In one exercise, everyone chose a random (blank) postcard and wrote the message that it inspired. Carl bemoaned the bad food in England where "they have a hundred religions and only one sauce." Vic, who is in another group, is tenacious, outspoken, and likes to question everything. EVERYTHING. Por ejemplo:

Me: "My name is Phyllis. We'll be doing some creative writing today."
Vic: "Why?"
"Pardon? Why what?"
"Why is your name Phyllis? Who named you that?"
"Umm. My parents named me Phyllis. After a friend..."
"Oh, well that's very nice. Now what exactly do you mean by 'creative'? And why writing?"

and on and on and on we go. Anyway, we read a poem by Charles Bukowski, Bluebird. The exercise was to write what was in their own hearts. A lot of the responses were funny (a rascal) some poetic (a herron) but I really loved Vic's because it surprised me:

He said: I have joy in my heart. Because I am 80 years old and that is older than my mother and father lived to be. I could live to be 100. I feel good.

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Old timer's.

I'm departing from the norm today. I'm not writing about the two little urchins. And I'm not being funny (am I ever? nevermind, don't answer that). But I do want to share something new I started today: assisting in a weekly writing workshop for adults in the early phases of Alzheimer's, via the organization Badgerdog Literary Publishing.

In a couple weeks, I will also be assisting a weekly writing workshop for under-privileged fourth graders, with the Austin Bat Cave. I can't stand people being told they have nothing to say. That they're just kids. Or they're poor. Or they're old. We start to tell people this, and then we start to believe it, and then -before you know it- we have fallen prey to what Nigerian author Chimamanda Adichie so eloquently calls the danger of the single story.

I, for one, believe reading and writing are transformative acts. Often, listening can be as well. Here is a list of the people I met today:

• Eugene: currently working toward his black belt in Tae Kwan Do. A photographer. His name means "royal one" in Hebrew. He suffers from mild cognitive impairment
• Nadine: with her husband, opened a school in Louisiana for mentally disabled children, and later, a school for girls
• Terry: a retired archaeology professor
• Vic: a retired psychology professor
• Mona: a self-deprecating songwriter
• Carol: a 30-year 5th grade teaching veteran, whose students still sometimes call her on the phone
• Mickey: an artist in colored pencils, she dreams of having a Siamese cat
• Bill: retired geologist, who at 82 years old says he's, "not gonna get any better, and not gonna get any worse" his wife still calls the shots
  
• Carl: retired Russian Orthodox priest, who grew up Jewish, in a very German community in 1938.
• Ruth: retired high school english teacher, she has published a book and now struggles to hold a pen

Carl shared with me today that he loves reading. And because he loves reading, he wants to try his hand at writing. I was amazed that although I had to repeat the date several times, he was able to recall with perfect clarity that as a child, his mother would read The Little Red Hen to him every day. Finally in the third grade, his family could afford to buy him glasses. From that day on, he could read to himself. He never stopped. I laughed out loud with this group of people today, but Carl nearly brought me to tears when he said, "I can't do a lot of things anymore. But I can still read."

Today, I also came across a quote from Howard Thurman:
Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

...I wonder, in fifty years, what some young writer might say about me? What would my life be in one sentence? I hope they will say that I was a reader. That I was a writer. And that in this life, I came alive.

Noveau.

To my handful of readers out there, I'd like to go ahead and establish a new blogging rule of thumb (for myself anyway): "special day" posts (eg: birthday, Christmas, Saturdays, etc.) are given a 7-day grace period before officially becoming irrelevant.

On that note, I'll share a quick word about New Year's: First, the house party last Friday was an epic success. If I say anything more than that, it'll take away all the mystique and exclusivity, thereby rendering the experience nearly vulgar. But yeah, it was better than I could have expected.

Also, visualization boards. This weekend I'll be making one for 2011. The idea is that we attract into our life whatever we give attention to; we literally manifest our thoughts, dreams, and energy. I was looking for images and words that I want to bring myself in the coming year when I found this bit from Walt Whitman (I will always love him, forget that he's almost certainly gay and definitely dead) and wanted to share it:

"this is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem."

I was fortunate to welcome great love and new friends into my life last year...here's looking forward to a year of new laughs and adventures with you all :)

A gobble-gobble-gobble and a ho-ho-ho!

Christmas. I have mixed feelings about this holiday. OK, maybe they're not so mixed: basically, I see this day as entirely inferior to Thanksgiving. You know how sociologists talk about "white guilt"?-- as a Liberal Arts educated kiddo in Austin, I no doubt suffer from it-- well I'd like to talk right now about Thanksgiving guilt. I actually feel burdened by the fact that the rest of the world does not have Thanksgiving. It is positively troubling. We are endlessly fortunate to have one day a year that entails the following:

• Gluttonous food, heavily focused on carbs, fat, and sugar
• A guaranteed four-day weekend
• Copious amounts of alcohol
• Family, friends, and football (American)
• No stressful gifting

But anyhow, this is supposed to be a Christmas post...On the 23rd, PB and I had some friends over to his place for a traditional -English- Christmas dinner. I ate parsnips for the first time. Thumbs up. We made a trip to the Farmer's Market to get all the good vegetables, and of course some duck bacon for the roasted brussel sprouts (shout out again to the Kocurek Family Charcuterie!) Got a small turkey from a farm in Waco (via Whole Foods).

About the turkey: at Thanksgiving, my sister prepared the most heavenly turkey. Well, heavenly for us, not so much the bird. On second thought, maybe heavenly for the bird, assuming he was a good little guy. Anyhow, PB followed her recipe to the T and wow! Success! I was charged with roasting vegetables and making a goat cheese cake (with ginger snap pecan crust and lemon pumpkin topping-- not to brag or anything)

Anyway. The turkey had to bathe in brine for about 12 hours. We needed a very large bucket for this task. Between the two of us, we did not have a very large bucket. At least one *not* covered in paint. I was midway through cheesecake and just about to offer up a quick trip to Home Depot for a new bucket, when I looked over and there was PB: removing the vegetable crisper drawer from his fridge. For reasons unbeknown-st to me, the glass top has always been missing from that section of his fridge. Without blinking, he triumphantly declared he would simply put the brine and turkey in the drawer and return it to the refrigerator. It was one of those moments in the relationship when you think to yourself, "Wait a second. This is my boyfriend, right?" I watched with relative horror as in went a 9 pound turkey, a gallon of ice water, and a gallon of salty brine, with the greatest, most ginger of care (of course).

...But then again, we all have our "things." We clip our nails in the bathtub. We wear the same socks for eight days straight. We drink our milk over ice. We know every word to Big Trouble in Little China. We brine turkeys in vegetable crispers.

Blessedly, we also create love for each other despite it all, despite the oddities and warts. And if that isn't the spirit of the season, by golly, I don't know what is.

Slungover.

Yeah. It's been a while. Truth is, I finished classes for the semester and have promptly checked out of all my daily life responsibilities, save for working and engaging in basic daily hygiene. So while I continue to floss, I'm not up to the task of waking before 9:30 am during the week, or blogging. Before I know it, I'll be back to waking up at 7:30 am and returning home at 10:00 pm, and I'll be damned if I don't take advantage of extra sleep while I can....

Anyhow, today I familiarized myself with a whole new world of pain: The Hungover Nanny. As the kids say, I was "like OMG so bad." Yesterday was a truly fantastic holiday party. In true Sunday Funday style, drinking started around 2:00 in the afternoon. I was pickled by 6:00 pm but just for good measure, stopped eating and continued drinking for two more hours. I didn't drive, but I did manage to fall asleep in the bath tub (why was I in there in the first place??) then wake enough to crawl into bed, still clutching a Santa hat from CVS pharmacy. Class, all the way.

This might not be so bad except that the girls are out of school, which means I take care of them from 8:00 am to 6:00 pm. When my alarm when off at 7:00 this morning, I was thirsty, starving (didn't I eat half an egg casserole the night before??) angry, and suffering from what felt like a giant sweater wrapped around my brain. I was running late so there was no time for an emergency trip to Torchy's. Upon arriving at the house, I realized I work in the single worst environment for nursing a hangover. Not only are there two diabolical munchkins to contend with, but it's also a vegan household, with a parent that works for Whole Foods. So. Not a bit of grease or fat in the whole damn place. In place of chips, queso, a Dublin Dr. Pepper, and a Dirty Sanchez taco, I forced down coconut juice, and brown rice with tofu. Note to self: *not* the same. I survived the day. Just barely.

On a positive note, my holiday cookies were a hit (I'll throw the recipe at the end of this). Plus, I invented a new drink! Ding Ding! So I'm a fan of the Colorado Bulldog. Yesterday, when all the champagne and beer had mysteriously disappeared, I moved onto vodka. We also had cream. But no Kahlua or Coca-Cola in sight. But I did improvise with some Dr. Pepper and voila! The Texas Bulldog was born:

• Ice
• Shot of cream
• Vodka (whenever you think you've poured enough, pour for another three seconds)
• Splash of Dr. Pepper

Oh yeah, and here are the cookies. You can thank me later:

Ingredients:

1 cup butter, softened
1 cup white sugar
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (I also add in nutmeg)
3 cups quick cooking oats
*Optional: raisins, nuts, choc chips (I add in 1/2 cup white chocolate chips, 1/2 cup dried cranberries, and 1/2 cup chopped walnuts)

Directions:

1. In a medium bowl, cream together white sugar, butter, and brown sugar. Beat in eggs one at a time, then stir in vanilla.

2. Combine flour, cinnamon, baking soda,and salt. Stir into the creamed mixture. Mix in oats. If you are using nuts or raisins, mix into dough, combining well. Cover, and chill dough for at least one hour.

3. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Grease cookie sheets. Roll the dough into balls, and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets. Note: they don't spread out much during baking, so I roll them into a ball then flatten slightly.

4. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in preheated oven. Makes about 24-36 cookies, depending on size.

Fire.

So the other day, I met with the career manager of my master's program. The appointment was depressing, but I suppose not entirely grim. Not surprisingly, the job market is heinous and all the more competitive in the country's fastest growing city. On the upside, I still have mostly functioning brain matter and a pulse. It's a start.

As expected, my dreams of becoming that college professor everyone love's have pretty much been squashed. In fact, I left still desperately searching for the silver lining to the cloud telling me that no, there really isn't much demand for an MLA in English & Writing. Actually, there isn't any demand at all. Have fun paying off that $30,000 master's degree! I should have become an accountant...

Fortunately, I possess an uncanny ability to get myself into jobs for which I have little to no qualification. When I can get face time, I somehow convince otherwise logical, reputable employers that they should hire me based on the fact that...well, probably based on the fact that maybe they like me and have a 'hunch' that I'll be good. I work hard, learn fast and thus far, have never let anybody down.

My only fear is having to return to the corporate world. However, I also recognize that I might have to get a little creative with how I apply my English degree. Ultimately, the one positive of an otherwise drab meeting is that I now have a fire under my ass. I left college with a job lined up, and I intend to do the same post-grad school. Because here's the thing about me: tell me I can't and I must. It's that simple. People told me don't go to Africa- I got myself in at the UN and hopped a plane to Ghana. People told me don't buy a project house- I tore up carpet, stained concrete floors, and painted every square inch, all within 4 weeks. People tell me don't get a Humanities degree- I'll finish, with flying colors, and move confidently onto my next dream. So there.

In that effort, I've started reaching out to people in various fields. The thing is, I have to exploit being a student until that status expires in 2012. Because you can contact someone and say, "I'm currently in grad school and interested in finding out more about how you entered your field" and *bam* you're that diligent student, just trying to figure things out. Maybe you endear yourself because they too, once were students and loved the experience. At any rate, people are receptive. But once I become an alum, I'm just another job seeker, and nobody -not nobody- cares that much about job seekers.

Networking is something I thought reserved for uptight people in stuffy offices, but it turns out even the hippie in me has to kiss some ass. Who knew?? I've paid my application fee to join the Association for Women in Communication, in the hopes I can charm the pants off some people important enough to put me on payroll.

In sum: it'll be a grueling 18 months while I continue working long hours during the day, schooling at night, and getting myself a job that doesn't involve poopy diapers. But watch out world, here I come.

Pee pee.

Today, Thing 1 decided to take a nap with her little sister, Thing 2. I liked this because as of about four weeks ago, #1 decided she had officially outgrown naps, leaving me to entertain a raucous four-year-old for seven hours straight, without the advantage of swats from a meter stick, slotted wooden spoon, or any of the other objects my mother or father would have chosen (love you guys!)

After story time, I excused myself to go "do big girl stuff" such as crush up a Xanax tab into my water and try to forget the previous four days of work. After a while, the peeps and whispers melt into silence and I figure I'm home free...

I'm one hundred pages into The Diving Bell and the Butterfly -enjoying the slow drain on my emotional taps as I follow the burden of Bauby- when I hear feet scampering across the bedroom floor. The girls are awake and #2 is naked, her wet diaper on the nightstand.

I take #2 to put on a dry diaper while #1 supervises the proceedings and also divulges to me that #2 peed twice. NO! Three times!

"She peed three times in her diaper?" I ask.

"No. Only once in her diaper."

I am just this side of fearful as I begin to dread the possible answers to my next logical question, but I inquire anyhow:

"OK. Where else did she pee then?"

"One time in the twashcan and another time on the fwoor next to the twashcan!" My, my, my what a kind informant.

The beauty of children at this tender age (let's face it: maybe the only one) is that they pretty much don't lie ever. It's like the honest truth just tumbles out of their mouth; a tight-rope walker falling to a swift, messy death. While I admire this fact, the adult in me is still thinking, Really? Why the hell would anyone ever pee into a trashcan? Sure, I peed in a dark parking lot once but I was a too-drunk adult and I really, really had to go but there was nowhere in sight, plus I was wearing a dress so at least I didn't have to mess with the trickery of pants. But I digress...but seriously, in what universe does it make sense to piss into a trash can? A two-year-old universe apparently. Furthermore, #2 is not fully potty-trained, which begs the question: why -in the name of all that is good and holy- can she not get her crap to land in the toilet (she prefers her pants on occasion- fun for me!) but she can make her urine trickle perfectly into a wicker garbage receptacle. WHY?

"But don't worry," #1 says. "I cleaned up the fwoor with mommy's shirt."

Well, kid. There's that.
Thanks.

The great outdoors.

I'll just go ahead and stop apologizing now for my continual re-lapses into blog comas. Anyway, the weather in Austin has been perfect: sunny, cool but with a tinge of warmness, sometimes breezy. And while the ravenous mosquitoes have not heeded my pleas to kindly eat shit and die, they have at least slightly calmed themselves...probably lulled into a deep winter sleep from their summer feeding frenzy.

The weather and buzzing predator count is good enough for the girls I nanny to finally "play outside." Now, this is not quite the playing outside I enjoyed as a tiny thing in northern Virginia: long before the days of GPS, cell phones and microchipping (my dog has this in her neck, has the technology moved to children yet? anyone?) my parents more or less tossed us five kids outside and assumed we would return at the end of the day mostly in one piece. If we got lost in the woods, we had to rely solely on our wits and ability to sob loudly enough for a pigeon to get the message, fly home, and relay it to the neighbor's cocker spaniel -Muffin- and hope she could bark the message to a trustworthy adult.

I now work at a house in the most popular and expensive zip code of south Austin. Everyone has a privacy fence leading to locked homes and no one has a screen door. The kids can't walk down to the stream to catch crawfish or minnows, but they can walk to Flipnotics for a cafe au lait (best one in town, btw).

So I was in the kitchen loading dishes, I told the girls to go outside and play. They blinked. "You have to come with us! Mommy always comes with us!" I told them I'd be watching from the kitchen window. They considered this for a moment and -emboldened by their new freedom- both stripped naked and ran out the back door.

I remember The Mother telling me early on that the girls should always be supervised in the backyard. Honestly, by the way she talked you'd think the place was littered with landmines and war heads, with child molesters lurking in every tree branch. As I watched from the kitchen window as #1 picked up an 8 foot piece of bamboo and started swinging it wildly at the hanging hurricane lamps, I felt fulfilled. Here is what every kid needs: the ability to be out of doors, naked as a jaybird, taking their four-year-old lives into their hands, and perilously dangling it at the edge of impending doom and physical harm. This, dear reader, is what we call learning experiences. Character building. In the end, both girls kept their appendages and eye balls and I had an hour of time to read quietly.

Yup, my mom and dad had it right.

Oz.

First morning in Australia. Here's my bullet list:

• I struggle with remembering to look right when crossing the street. This makes me think that a plane crash will likely never kill me, but I might very well kick the bucket if getting hit by a car that drives on the left side of the road.
• Staying in Rose Bay, a suburb of Sydney. Sitting on the patio feels like being on the Discovery Channel...these birds sound much nicer than our Texas grackles. Oh, and a cockatoo just flew by.
• Sydney is expensive. This most hurts the boyfriend, who hasn't been here in 13 years...times they are a'changin! Also, we picked a stellar time to visit, as the Aussie and US dollar are on parity for maybe the first time in recent memory. Joke's on us, folks!
• Apparently, you drop the end of basically every word and replace it with an "i" or "o." Breakfast is now "brekki," mosquitoes "mozzies" etc.
  
• For the (14 hour) flight from San Fran to Sydney, Phil and I chose the seats in the middle, against the toilets --the ones that *don't* recline -- disproving conventional wisdom that two brains are better than one.

Jet-lag shot me out of bed at 6:00 this morning, and I feel absolutely famished...it's lunchtime back home. Going to rustle up some herbal tea and see if I can't get myself back to sleep.

Also, had a request from the States to investigate the toilet situation south of the Equator: have not been able to determine if they do indeed flush opposite of northern hemisphere toilets, but will keep you all posted....

Free wheelin'

Today is Tuesday, which is automatically good because it's not Monday. Also, I had a morning so splendid, I simply had to write about it:

After getting up for an early walk with my dog, followed by strategically organizing my guest bedroom closet, I enjoyed my peanut-butter-honey-wheat-toast with African roobois herbal tea. I refinanced my car (I'm saving $40 per month!) and mopped my floors. But even better: I had the best bike ride ever....

About a month ago, I made the commitment to forsake my car for the ol' Fuji road bike. My reasoning had several prongs:

• By my calculations, my poor-graduate-student-self could save about $35 a month in gasoline
• I could also cancel my monthly gym membership...doubling my savings
• My shrinking carbon footprint would be the envy of all my bearded, granola friends

I always enjoy my friendly waves to fellow cyclists, fellow fighters against the evil of motor vehicles. There's a camaraderie. Unity. Solidarity in the battle. I've also learned a few lessons:

• Hills are not your friend. My vintage Fuji is uber-cool, looks great but also somewhat impractical for a bike commuter...the bike is so old, the gear shifts are actually at the center of the handlebar stem. Shifting is not graceful, or easy. This is compounded by hills.
• Traffic lights are not your friend. Rather, hills with traffic lights are your worst enemy. By far, stopping at a red light at the crest of a hill (Stassney and I-35, I'm talking to you!) makes me want to weep...just imagine if you will the trickery of pedaling enough to maintain upward momentum, but not too much that you cruise into the intersection and get yourself flattened.

Oh, and a word to non-cyclists with whom I share the road:

• don't shout at me to get on the sidewalk. Seriously, I don't shout at you to get on a treadmill, do I?
• don't honk at me as I struggle uphill. I mean really, throw me a bone here.
• as you fly by me, gently grazing my arm with your side mirror, please keep in mind that my Fuji and I have a combined weight of oh, say, 140 pounds. That's about 1/bazillionth of you and your tank. I don't want to die.
• also, yes, I am allowed to ride in the middle of the lane. In fact, that's where I'm supposed to be so that ass clowns like you can see me better.
• if you're that bothered by bicycle commuters, you should probably move to Dallas.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.

Wait for me! Wait for me!

Holy hell, when did it become September? And where did my blog go? Ah, here it is! Yowza. As a writer, my personal commitment was to blog every day for no more than 20 minutes...the challenge was to make my everyday, mundane life something interesting -and sometimes funny- to read about, with very minimal editing/re-writing.

Well, here I am after a two week dry spell and I'd like to explain myself: You see, about two weeks ago is the moment when Nugget #1 decided she had outgrown naps. This means gone are the two hours of midday freedom, where after I clean up the zoo -I mean, house- I can sit down for a tiny sliver of time and free write. Now that time is spent inventing games like "vacuum snacks" and (the not so cleverly named) "scrub the sink" in order to have a productive day before I leave.

The realization of my neglected blog also makes me marvel at where this year has gone. It seems like just yesterday I was running down 6th street, in purple tights, sequin top, and red heels and counting down at The Red Eye Fly...but that's another story.

So why is it that time flies if we're having fun, but also seems to positively soar the older I get? Sure, I'm having plenty of fun but geez, does it really have to be going so quickly?! NPR has a great piece on some different theories for this phenomenon.

Currently, I'm looking into solutions for manipulating time. Thus far, some sort of time machine seems the most logical means to this end. Particularly, I would like to add a few more hours to my day that is already full of interning, working, and night school-- slow down nights, so I can get a full seven hours of sleep, speed up the time it takes to receive my spring tax return, and slow down the fine lines appearing on my forehead.

Unfortunately, I've scoured Craigslist and Ebay and my time machine dream may never be fully realized (although I did find this little ditty, the price is right but it's not really my style)...looks like my best bet is a pesky thing I keep hearing about called "time management" which involves making "to do lists" and "monthly goals" and "five-year-plans." Blah.

Maybe flying by the seat of my pants ain't so bad after all.