suburban goddess

The Blog Has Moved

2006-04-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

I've decided to host the blog myself, so it can now be found here. Sorry to move around, but I feel more secure with my archives on my OWN server.

Thanks For Nothing

2006-04-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to launch a fledgling photography business on the side (because I have SO MUCH free time), and I've taken on a few jobs for free. Actually, they're not free, because I get exclusive rights to use the photographs in advertising, but for the models I've chosen, it's a win-win situation; they get free pictures for their portfolio, and I don't have to pay a modeling fee.

So this weekend I had two shoots; one paying, one not. The paying gig was a referral from the non-paying gig, so I was pretty happy to do another shoot for the girl who got me the business. Not to mention the girl is beautiful, and she photographs extremely well with very little direction. So I was rather shocked when I was told she was angry because I took a picture of her friend with my car.

Now, eighteen was not THAT long ago, and I do recall that things were much more dramatic back then. Rivalries were fierce, even among friends. But flash forward twelve years, & I became really irritated.

1) If you're getting free pictures, and most of them are in the style of YOUR choosing, you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

2) I am a 30-year-old woman, and I pay the note on my car, and if I want to take of picture of somebody with it, I will do so.

3) If the person taking a picture with said car happens to be your best friend, you should be happy for her.

4) If you're on good terms with the photographer, then chances are the opportunity will arise that you will be able to take the picture also.

5) If both you and your best friend are insanely beautiful, you should shut up and appreciate it before you make it to thirty and something as stupid as a picture doesn't matter anymore.

God, to be eighteen and have eighteen-year-old problems again.... try a mortgage, daycare, sick kid, stressful job, messy house, and bills, and if you make it through all that, then you can come back to me and bitch about a picture!

Doorway To Schizophrenia

2006-04-24T07:01:00.003-07:00

I watched the moving "Waiting" this weekend. As far as a plot goes, it's non-existent, and the dialogue is wretched, but the core message behind the movie had me riveted.

"Waiting" is about a bunch of twenty-somethings who make their living in the restaurant industry. And while I'm watching this, I'm suddenly transported back to my restaurant days. It's amazing how accurate they portrayed the average American restaurant and the personalities that work there.

There's the slutty young underage hostess. The cool pretty-boy that sleeps with everyone. The woman who's been waitressing just a little too long (hence the term, Doorway To Schizophrenia, a term coined by myself & a good friend. You walk into the back, and you curse like a trucker; you walk into the dining room and you're Ms. Suzy Sunshine). The obnoxious tattooed grill cook. The older experienced sage who everyone goes to for advice. The drugged out bus boy. The lesbian bartender. And let's not forget the after-party EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, where all the employees get together to unwind and end up in some co-worker's bed the next morning.

It amazed me how much of that I'm suppressed. I think it was self-defense, a method to cope with the post-traumatic stress disorder you contract when you work in a restaurant. But it was so accurate, that it opened a floodgate of memories that I'd left somewhere in my subconscious. Good times, good times.

So which personality was I? I was very much like the main character; the once-ambitious but now slightly lazy server who gets caught in the machinations of the daily grind...quiet but witty... far too smart to be a lifetime server, but too lazy to figure out what I want to do with my life. I do my job, and do it well. But eventually, reality calls, and I realize I don't want to spend the rest of my life smelling like country-fried steak. And that's when I decide to turn in the apron and follow my dream...

...but you know, I made more as a waiter, and the damn government didn't take HALF as much in taxes!

Failure To Communicate

2006-04-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

Have you ever encountered someone who asked you a question, but refuses to listen to the answer? It's a carefully-laid trap, a dangling question to which THEY have already formulated an answer of their own, without ever having the intention of listening to your reply. My question is this:

WHY IN THE HELL DO YOU ASK THE QUESTION IF YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE THE ANSWER ALREADY???

Tagged

2006-04-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

I was tagged by TexasGoodies and I figure if I don't share then I'll have seven years of bad luck or something....

Here's the rules:

Go write 6 weird facts/things/etc. about yourself in my comment box and on your blog, then tag six more people!
Then leave a comment that says “You are tagged” in their comments telling them to read your blog.

Now, six things about me....

1. I wear stripper shoes, but I am not and NEVER HAVE BEEN a stripper. I just love platforms, even though I'm already 5'11". I usually top out somewhere around 6'3" with the shoes. I figure if I'm going to be freak of nature, I'm going all out.

2. I twirled a flag in the 1992 Florida Citrus Bowl Halftime show in a shiny wizard costume. Harry Potter would be proud.

3. I used to date a guy whose grandmother had a six-foot alligator named Mike. She's feed it chicken twice a week. One day, my new puppy disappeared. A few days later, two more dogs disappeared. A few days after that, his nephew was playing next to the pond with another dog when Mikey decided to grab a snack. Luckily, he got the dog and not the kid. I've hated alligators ever since.

4. In 2002, I was the "Fastest Woman In Louisiana." No, not a reference to stripper shoes. I was the Trans-Louisiana Autocross Women's Champion. Okay, so it's not the Indianapolis 500, but according to the SCCA, it's racing! I won in a Miata. Despite upgrading to some very impressive cars, I've never been able to win again since.

5. My other career choices in high school were 1) genetic scientist or 2) lawyer. I chose to be a graphic artist instead. I'd love to go back to high school and beat my guidance counselor with a baseball bat.

6. On my first day all by myself as the youngest manager in the history of Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, I had a kid lock all the bathroom stalls, so I had to climb on the filty floor and unlock all of them. I also had a gas leak, which brought the fire department. And to finish off the day, a fat man had a heart attack during the lunch rush. More sirens. That same day was the first time I received flowers from what is now my husband, and I quit that job shortly thereafter.

As I was writing this, I realized that I have a pretty colorful history. And I always thought of myself as boring! So I pass the Tag Plague onto the following victims, er, participants: Just Kelly because she's REAL, Big Pink Cookie beacuase I love her photographs, I Don't Think beacuase, yes, somebody DOES read your blog, Ain't Chicken because she's funny as hell, Pete, because his blog reminds me of Dennis Miller, Mary @ French Roast, even though I know she hates this shit but she's too interesting to NOT do this to, & finally, TexasBug, because even though I don't always agree with her, she brings up some good points and occasionally makes me laugh. To the people I tagged, I'm sorry, but it is a form of flattery, because I admire your work!

Q-Tip

2006-04-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

As the natural progression of marriage moves forward, you come to expect certain things from your partner. A kiss in the morning, "How was your day?" when you return home, your back scratched at night. These are the little things in marriage that you come to expect & eventually take for granted until you fight, and then all the little things become important again.

But then there are other little things that you begin to notice that get to you... those little habits that will start to annoy you, then really bother you, then drive you COMPLETELY INSANE. My biggest pet peeve for the longest time was a Q-Tip.

Every morning my husband has a habitual routine that includes sticking a Q-Tip in his ear. I like to tease him and remark, "Poking your brain awake?" while he makes comical faces of pleasure. That isn't what bothered me. What bothered me was the way he would haphazardly flick the Q-Tip in the general direction of the trash basket and, inevitably, miss. And there it would sit on the floor.

Filthy little yellow ear-waxed Q-Tip.

I don't know why it made me want to flip out. I think I might be a germophobe, bodily fluids in general gross me out, but ear wax & snot are definitely on my cannot-tolerate list. But I have been through a divorce, so I know that freaking out over a cotton ball on a stick is pretty stupid, so I'd clean it up and keep my mouth shut. It's part of marriage. For better or for worse. This is the "worse" part. And considering what other people have to tolerate for "worse,", I've got it pretty damn good.

So we're having dinner with another couple, J. & S., and after a couple of drinks we start to bash our significant others, because that's much cheaper than therapy. And it was then that I realized, I am not alone! S. has the exact same problem with the Q-Tips!!! Hallelujah! It was like a miniature Q-Tips Anonymous meeting, and here I could vent my Q-Tip frustration in a safe place. My husband looked at me like I was crazy as S. & I carried on about Q-Tips & socks, but I suddenly felt a sense of complete relief. Because finally, I knew that it's not just me, and I'm not crazy. Sometimes your feelings need validation, otherwise you start to question your judgment, your character, even your sanity.

Shortly afterwards, my husband started making an effort to get the Q-Tips in the trash. The socks...well, that's another story, but today, I want to say THANK YOU for the Q-Tips. It's the little things that matter.

Jellybean

2006-04-18T06:31:00.000-07:00

The Value of A Band-Aid

2006-04-13T10:36:00.000-07:00

I went in to see my doctor today for some routine blood tests. I used to have a hellacious fear of needles, but through the years I have been lucky enough to encounter some great nurses. The technician today was no exception; she's frequently taken blood samples from me before, and her gentle touch & extreme care makes it relatively painless everytime. She always remembers me when I sit down it the chair:

"I'm fine-" I start...

..."I know, as long as you don't SEE the needle," she finishes. We smile at each other & I close my eyes while she wraps the rubber tourniquet around my left bicep. A tiny poke, and I don't even feel the blood coming out this time. She pulls out the needle & puts a small piece of gauze on the area, telling me to hold it firmly. A moment later, I'm on my way to front desk to pay my co-pay.

As I'm standing there, I feel something crawling across my fingertips, put I pay it no attention at the moment. The nurse behind the desk points to me and says something, but I didn't understand her.

"Your bannnnnfff..." she says.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask.

"Your banddfff...your banndff...." she says, pointing.

"My what?" I repeat, looking down. It was that moment I realized she was saying Band-Aid, because my entire left arm was now covered with blood that was dripping off my fingers.

And with that, I promptly passed out.

I have never passed out in my life (without alcohol), so I actually found it funny when I came to & three concerned faces were hovering over me. Just like in the movies! The nurse, the receptionist & the lab technician helped me to a nearby chair, when the technician commented, "Obviously I can't let you see your blood, either..."

And with that, it is official. I am a bonafide, complete & total wuss. I will now carry Band-Aids with me at ALL times.

Selective Stupidity

2006-04-12T14:22:00.000-07:00

It took years for me to get where I am today. Lots of spelling errors, lots of wasted print runs, lots of wasted time, & lots of wasted money. So I'd like to think I MIGHT know what I'm talking about when it comes to print design. Not the design side, because that's all relative to person's opinion, but the technical-can't-argue-with-a-two-ton-press-and-a-postscript-file side.

After years of fruitlessly banging my head against a brick wall trying to explain graphic formats to salespeople & clients, I drafted a course called Graphics 101. It involved short, simple sentences & lots of bright, catchy illustrations. The presentation that accompanied it had lots of fun little tunes and cute animations. There are four basic handouts titled:

a.) "Why Is My Customer's Logo Fuzzy?"

b.) "Why Doesn't The Color Match On My Ad?"

c.) "Why Can't I Use The Picture Off The Internet?"

And of course, my personal favorite...

d.) "Why Can't I Use Microsoft Word To Design My Ad?"

I figured that this was the proactive solution to all my problems. Written in USA Today-level language with lots of big pictures, surely I wouldn't have any more communication problems! When they see what happens to a photograph when you blow it up to seven times it's intended size, I would never again encounter a 72dpi image. Oh happy day! Oh joy!

After giving them the handouts on FOUR SEPARATE occasions, after REPEATED phone calls rejecting artwork, after doing everything short of pulling out an aluminum baseball bat & a cattle prod, I STILL receive files in Mircosoft Word and instructions to "just use the picture off the Internet....."

WHY, GOD, WHY?????

I Surround Myself With Storytellers

2006-04-11T06:54:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a tiny Mississippi town nestled near the southern part of the Pearl River. A marina used to stand across the street from the house I grew up in (pre-Katrina). My grandmother's house was about a mile & a half up the road, behind the small yellow Catholic church.

Most Saturdays were spent on a boat in the river, either fishing or water skiing. Every Sunday we would go to church, then walk over to my grandmother's house and sit in the back yard under the massive old oak trees. The adults would talk over a couple of beers (always in koozies), and the kids would either play in the pea gravel or run up to the grassy point and pick blackberries or strawberries until my grandmother would yell at us. It was here that I learned the value of a good story.

My aunts & uncles had hard lives. They would all gather in a circle, some in the porch swing, others laid back in old dollar store canvas chairs. I would hide behind the folding lawn chair and listen as they relived their childhood antics. Do you remember when Charlie did this? Or Neice did that? And then there was the time Leona did this, and Mary Ruth, well, ha, ha,ha... As they would drink more, the stories became more animated, more lively, and a little more inappropriate for children. About that time, my parents would kiss everyone goodbye and we'd head home.

I love the stories. And as I grew up, I surrounded myself with people who tell stories the same way. Attention to detail, animated motions, and most importantly, heart. It wasn't a conscious decision, I just gravitate to that kind of person. Someone who can help me escape reality a few moments at a time, and take me to a place that meant something to someone.

You would think, as time progresses, that people like this would be easy to find, but it's actually getting harder for me. People get so wrapped up in NOW, that they forget the moments that make their life special. Perhaps that's why it's so hard for me to truly connect with people. I want to hear the stories, not the complaining. I want to know the person, not what you think I want to hear. I want to truly connect, not just small talk.

It's a lofty expectation for someone you just meet.

Down at the Redneck Drive-In

2006-04-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, my husband & I decided to try out the new drive-in in Tomball. It's been over six months since we've gone out to a movie, which is unheard of for us. During that life before baby (distant, distant memory), we would go to the movies almost every week. Immediately post-baby, we thought we were going to be the "lucky" parents whose kid could sleep through anything, and we were until about seven months. The last movie we saw together was "Walk the Line." Actually, we didn't see it together because we spent the entire movie playing tag team with the baby in the lobby. So we were pretty excited to hear about the drive-in; freedom again! The ability to let the baby talk all she wants in the backseat without the angry stares and frequent "SHHHHHHH!"

We arrived around 7:30, and it was already packed. Row after row of Ford & Chevy pickup trucks with dirty children and beer coolers. I was a little apprehensive at first. If somebody pulled out a shotgun, there was no other option than to run. But the atmosphere was light, and the rednecks were jovial. Some stopped by to admire the truck (bright yellow F-250), others smiled at Alex as she played in her playpen. (Can't bring that to the cinema!) The weather was absolutely beautiful, and as the sun set and the lights came up, the old fifties music began to play and Alex danced happily on the backseat. (Can't do that either!) For $10, we watched two new releases (Ice Age 2 & Failure to Launch, and that would have cost us at LEAST $28), ate popcorn, and let the kid climb around the cab of the truck until she passed out in the backseat. During Intermission, the redneck children played happily on the field beneath the screen (no grass or fresh air at the megaplex). And aside from the creepy fifties music (which is catchy, but I can't get the movie "Christine" out of my head), it was a very pleasant evening.

I have a feeling we'll be frequenting that establishment more often. Me, my baby, my husband, fresh air & a beer cooler. What more do you need?

Spam Sammich

2006-04-10T09:48:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the inconvenience to my dedicated readers, but apparently I caught the eye of a spammer who was driving me insane. Enter Word Verification, that annoying little necessity that forces the reader to decipher some squiggly text before you get your turn to speak. Who are these bastards who intrude into my daily zen, hocking useless products and services to the technologically-impaired & hopelessly naive? Does ANYBODY ever REALLY click on this stuff anyway? Why can't these web parasites get a life and try a real job?

Deprived

2006-04-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

My husband & I have been juggling alternate schedules lately. Somehow, our activities cannot seem to coincide (either that, or it's an activity that the other has no interest in). So a few nights ago, I was happy that we found each other in the house at THE SAME TIME.

But when I came in from work, I was disappointed to find his nose buried in his laptop (where it tends to spend a WHOLE lot of time.) He can spend hours cruising car forums, until the entire evening has disappeared in a click of a web page.

"You pay more attention to those damn forums than you do ME," I complained.

"No, I don't." he replied without looking up. Click click. Click.

"Yes you do. You get to come home early, and all you do is sit on the couch and surf. It's not fair. I want you to pay that kind of attention to ME."

"Then join the forum."

Indeed. Bay-stard.

Flying Projectiles

2006-04-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

I hate laundry. I hate it so much that I will let it pile up all week until there is a huge mound of clothing that blocks the path from my bed to the bathroom. Then, in moment of pure disgust (usually on a Sunday), I throw everything in the washing machine at once and leave while it wobbles furiously from being overloaded. But I digress...

I had about a month's worth of Alex's clothes that I needed to put away, so I lugged her upstairs. She rarely spends time in her room unless she's sleeping, so she loves the opportunity to explore when I let her. So I gather the basket of clothes, and lay all the empty hangers around me on the floor.

Mistake Number 1: Choosing to sort the laundry on the floor. As soon as something is laying neatly, she feels the urge to pull at it (usually whatever is at the BOTTOM of the stack).

Mistake Number 2: Assuming that her room will keep her occupied for over ten minutes. I am dealing with the daughter of the poster child for ADD. After chewing on assorted blocks, pulling all the stuffed animals off the bookcase, pulling over the diaper hamper and climbing up the changing table, the whole "Alex's Room" situation was pretty much played out.

Mistake Number 3: Putting hangers within a one-year-old's reach. She is inexplicably drawn to hangers for some reason. Maybe it's the shape, maybe it's something new, maybe it's the taboo because Mommy constantly takes them away and says "no no."

But I knew exactly when she'd had enough of it, because it came hurtling at the back of my head. With a shriek I turned to regard my previously passive daughter, who obviously found the sound funny because she erupted into the beautiful sound of tinkly childhood laughter. I, however, did NOT find it funny.

"NO." I barked. "No ma'am!" With that, the laughter quickly stopped, the smile faded, and slowly the face transformed into the huge pout that always precedes the crying. Immediately I regretted my tone and did exactly what I swore I would never do. I gathered her into my arms and kissed her until the smile came back. A few moments later I was rewarded with another hanger in the back of the head.

So the true trials of motherhood have begun. She's only one; how do I teach her that throwing things at her mother is not socially acceptable (unless you have a horribly dysfunctional family) ? I know this is just one of many issues I will face in my life, but now that I'm faced with them, what I SAID I was going to do is going to be a LOT harder than I thought...

Perception

2006-04-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

I was at classy wine bar this weekend with a friend of mine. Since it was "Girl's Day Out," we got dolled up and took my sportscar, a Lotus Elise. Upon arrival, the valet looked at the car with a small degree of awe.

"Dude, what is this?"

"It's an Lotus Elise," I replied, giving him the additional instruction that it starts with a BUTTON so he wouldn't attempt to break the key off in the ignition. Now, those of you who know me know that I love any and all types of cars, and my biggest addiction (other than Starbucks) is speed. So I was pretty flattered when they parked my little yellow car next to a SL600 V-12 Mercedes directly down in front. A few moments later, two Ferrari 360 Modenas joined the party.

We sat at table on the patio since it was a beautiful day, and I observed how many people looked at the cars parked down in front. What amazed me the most is how many people walked right past the $100,000+ cars over to my tiny little go-cart car.

There are NO creature comforts in the Elise; I almost feel like I should turn around & pull-start it like a 5hp Briggs & Stratton. We bought the car because it is a racecar, pure & simple. But slap a label on the back and give it a pretty yellow paint job, and people assume it's a $100,000+ car, too. I had the realization that labels can be very, very misleading.... and that made me wonder how many people judged me when I stepped out of it.

Mean Bastards

2006-03-31T11:58:00.000-08:00

What is it about my personality that people feel they can walk up to me and say mean things? Don't they know I'm one step away from Postal Worker?

"Tonight at 5:00, the Evil Graphic Artist who stabbed her co-worker over two hundred times with a paper clip..."

Biased Opinion

2006-03-31T11:03:00.000-08:00

I know the way of American life. For the most part, American life is about the way of the dollar. Money runs the world. And I live in a peaceful state of apathy because I know that if I choose to challenge that, I will fail. But occasionally, something comes along and jars me out of my little box and makes me think about the injustices of the world.

I came across a blog by an Iraqi student that just made so much sense to me. When I watch our biased American news, I see Iraq on the brink of civil war, two fiery religions clashing in the streets. I don't see the people who sit in their houses waiting for the gunfire to end. I don't see the families who are just trying to survive the insanity. And I realized while watching our biased American news, that they don't show that happening in America, either...

It is amazing that in the name of God, or a god, whatever you call him, people will hack, bomb, drill, shoot, maim, hang & murder. It's not that I don't believe that their faith runs that deep; but how can anyone think that by inflicting pain on others that it will help you get to your promised land? Where are the gentle religions? Where are the merciful gods? Where did the value of a human life go?

Check out her blog. I bookmarked it to the right at "Riverbend." It's amazing how much our media can distort things.

It's All In The Delivery

2006-03-30T06:27:00.000-08:00

I am, by nature, a quiet and shy person. Only those who know me well are subjected to the drama. But generally, I try to be nice to everyone that I meet. I think I'm a decent boss, maybe not as professional as I should be, but that's okay in my profession because people expect the artsy-types to be flaky.

What I am NOT is a hard-ass bitch. So what amazes me is that I have that reputation among my sales staff. I was quite taken aback when my boss approached me and let me know that some comments I made were misconstrued as "smart ass." Now, I do have that tendency occasionally, but only with people that I know pretty well who aren't (or don't appear to be) easily offended. And NEVER when it comes to business. Business is business. If you ask me a question, I will give you an answer, blunt, straight to the point, no nonsense. So recently, a co-worker emailed me with a simple question.

"Will you let me know when this project is done?"

To which I replied quite simply, "Yes, I will tell you when it is done." Send.

How is that being a smart ass???

I spend a great deal of my life tiptoeing around other people's feelings. As I get older, I guess I expected people to be more, well, grown-up. When you're playing in the schoolyard and a group of girls in the corner are talking about you, Mom shouldn't sugar-coat it and say they're just mean, ignore them. This is LIFE, sweetheart. It does not change with age. The boys will still be dumb, the girls will still be catty, some friends will still backstab you and others will stay true for life. And if you want to succeed, you better learn to master this game.

I wish I had paid more attention in the schoolyard. I wish I had kicked a few more guys in the balls. I wish Mom hadn't taught me the values of respect, conscience, and work ethic. Now I have to live with it.

Damn it, Mom.

Whose Ass Do YOU Have To Kiss Today?

2006-03-27T11:03:00.000-08:00

I might be in a overly cynical mood today, but I'm just a little tired of life's politics. It seems no matter where you go or what you do, there's some type of politics involved. Family politics, job politics, neighborhood politics, government politics... and it all involves somebody's over-inflated ego that you have to somehow appease for the sake of peace. Don't you ever wish you could just say what you were really thinking without having to deal the consequences? Just the unhindered, blunt, and painfully honest truth?

My neighbor asked me at dinner last night, "Do you ever get lonely?" To which I did not reply, but thought to myself, "No, not really." Because within myself I find a peaceful calm that does not involve anyone else's feelings. I'm free to think the way that I want & express my feelings without fear of repercussions. I don't have to stroke my own ego to achieve something; I just have to get off my ass and do it.

I wish everyone else had that kind of perspective.

Unsettling

2006-03-27T06:26:00.000-08:00

My mother made a comment the other day that got me thinking. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, she feels that she has too many material possessions. It is almost unfair that her house was spared, with it's four bedrooms, closets filled to the brim, while others nearby are left with absolutely nothing.

"I have eight red shirts in my closet. Who really needs eight red shirts?" she lamented. I didn't really understand at that moment. She has the ability to have eight red shirts, she should appreciate that. But as I thought about the comment, and my life in general, I realized that maybe I wasn't as grateful for the material things in my life as I should be.

And then, there was the Weekend From Hell.

My mother-in-law enlisted the help of her four children this past weekend to help clean her garage & attic. I have never seen as much stuff as she crams into this house. Every corner, every surface, everything is covered with something. As the kids walked by with armload after armload of stuff, I started to wonder if she had ever thrown anything away. Every item had a story. Every item had a memory. And in that was both joy & sadness. A house full of memories. An era coming to an end.

Her youngest daughter is preparing to leave for college this summer, and you can tell that she's having a very hard time with it. She clings to her daughter in an over-protective mode that would rival Hitler's regime. Soon there will be nothing left in that house but things, things & more things. Nobody to talk to. Nothing but things to keep her company.

And with that, one of life's little clichés suddenly became frighteningly and glaringly true. Money will not buy you happiness.

Gulf Coast Politics

2006-03-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

During my last trip to New Orleans, my father & I took a ride down to Biloxi, Mississippi to see what was left of "Casino Row." I was absolutely amazed to see everything I knew of the Gulf Coast completely wiped away. All the pictures, all the stories, they don't do it the slightest bit of justice. You simply have to SEE it with your own eyes. Huge, beautiful plantation homes completely ripped from their foundations. Casino barges pushed almost a mile inland. Absolute destruction.

But... the street we traveled on was wiped clean of debris. Everywhere you looked, there was some type of heavy machinery pushing, ripping, pinching, hauling something away. And across Hwy 90, the main road that parallels the beach, the freshly-sifted, gleaming white sand beckoned invitingly.

It's almost unfair to Mississippi. Across the state line, New Orleans is sending out reports of dead bodies still being found. But Mississippi is quietly, and SUCCESSFULLY cleaning up their own mess. You don't hear the mayor of Biloxi in the press begging for help or money. The mayor of Gulfport hasn't been on CNN lately with some off-color comment. And you don't hear Mississippi politicians being investigated for pocketing Katrina money.

What is it about that state line?

Damn Girl Scouts

2006-03-16T14:48:00.000-08:00

I'm innocently walking out of the grocery store when I'm accosted by three hoodlums in green outfits.

"Hey, lady, ya wanna buy some cookies?"

Like a miniture crack dealer. Shady little character. She holds a box of Thin Mints out with a scrawny little arm, shaking the box enticingly. I look left, then right. No witnesses. I slide over to the table.

"How much?"

"Only $3.50."

"$3.50! I remember when they were two dollars a box!" I complain, handing over a $20 dollar bill. The girl grabs the cash, looking down at the money while mumbling out of the side of her mouth.

"$2.00. Sheesh, you're old, lady." With that, she handed me my change and put on a bright white smile.

"Thank you so much for supporting our Girl Scout Troop!"

And just that quickly, I have blown my diet. We all have our addictions.

Actions and Consequences

2006-03-14T06:18:00.000-08:00

I live my life with a set of standards that have been working pretty well for me. My basic theory for life is that for every action, there is a consequence, so I usually weigh the consequences and make a decision. Sometimes I know the consequences will suck, but the easier route is just the one that I want to take at the moment. And I deal with it. Like I said, it works for me.

What bothers me about this are the people who defy the consequences by excessively whining until the natural balance is shifted and they get their way. It's not right. You didn't do your job; if you whine enough, eventually your boss will just say OK to shut you up. Why not own up to the fact that you just didn't feel like getting up early today, so you kept hitting the snooze button until you were late? I appreciate honesty so much more than well-crafted bullshit. Now you have a whole new set of consequences: instead of telling the truth, you've lied to me, and now I will forever view you as a liar. Which means I can no longer trust you. So now, every time you're late, I will resent you because I saw you sneak in with Starbucks...

Cake Smashing

2006-03-13T06:17:00.000-08:00

The first birthday came and went without incident. It was actually a little sad for me. I was hoping that Alex would dig into her cake with childhood abandon, but as she always does, she surprised me. She stuck one little finger into the icing and smeared it across her face, carefully examining the new textures and colors of this interesting new food. Perhaps it was her father's genes in charge here; the engineer, completely and thoughtfully mapping out every new plane, testing the new substance ever so carefully.

I see an strong sense of independence emerging in her young personality, and it made me realize that she's no longer my baby. She's my little girl now. And for the first time, with striking clarity and eminent resolve, I feel my own mortality.

DaVinci is Laughing At You

2006-03-10T11:14:00.000-08:00

While on a business trip, I picked up "The DaVinci Code" to keep me occupied on the plane. I was raised Catholic, so I was wondering what the big hoopla was all about, anyway. About six chapters in, I was interrupted by a woman.

"Are you a Christian?"

I was rather taken aback at the abruptness with which she asked.

"Um, I grew up Catholic. Does that count?" I answered with a feeble smile.

"You can't read that garbage and call yourself a Christian."

Hmmm. Meanwhile, she's got a Danielle Steele novel poking out of her bag. Not that I don't like Danielle Steele, but I found it amusing that Dan Brown is GARBAGE while Danielle Steele is not.

Which brings me to my point. I loved "The DaVinci Code." It was a well-crafted mystery drenched in religious icons that reminded me of my childhood. My mother was Catholic. My father was a Mason. It was a really great STORY. A work of FICTION. Did everybody else miss that? FICTION. If I write a story and use Catholic history as a backdrop, that doesn't mean I'm attacking the entire religion. I'm writing about something I know, and dressing it up to make an interesting story. I liked it so much that I bought a couple of other Dan Brown books. Numerologists aren't in a tizzy because he used a mathematical genius in "Angels & Demons."

I understand people stand behind their religion, but can we take this issue at face value? Dan Brown presents a sacrilegious idea in his book. But he's not putting it out there as a reference manual to the Catholic religion. And if you actually read it all the way through, you might be surprised.

FICTION, people. Get a life.

Overheard By A Co-Worker

2006-03-02T11:30:00.000-08:00

"I wish we could all just be jovial again."

Ha. That requires the blissful state of naivité that comes with the pure lack of experience & knowledge. To achieve that state of zen requires drastic measures... like finding a new job.

How do you find the happiness in your job after it's lost? It's like trying to find the love lost in a marriage.

Bedtime

2006-03-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

As my child passes from cute little baby to wretched squirmy toddler, I've noticed that she gets away with a few things that I always said I would NEVER let my child get away with.

I've never been into the Ferber method; if my kid is crying, I'm going to pick her up. I think that I've been rewarded for doing so, since she only cries when something is wrong. However, as she gets older, HER idea of something wrong vs. MY idea of something wrong is beginning to differ.

And so begins the new nighttime battle. She used to lay calmly on my chest at 8:00pm, quietly sucking on her binkie until she passed happily into a peaceful sleep. She would sleep soundly throughout the evening until 6:00am, when I would bring her down and place her in the bed with me & my husband.

Now, she doesn't want to go to sleep at 8:00. She'll throw her binkie in a fit of rage and lean against the coffee table screaming, waving her little arms when you try to pick her up. So I let her play until she finally collapses from exhaustion in the middle of the living room floor. But the other night, she showed no signs of fatigue, and my husband had had enough.

"Say goodnight to Mommy," he said, lifting her up and preparing to take her to bed. I immediately disagreed.
"You can't just put her up there in the dark. She's not used to that."
My husband gave me a look I'd never seen before. It was something akin to... frustration. "Fine, I'm going to bed. You get her to go to sleep."

I put on my Good Mommy hat and lifted my child up to my chest, where she immediately began the squirmy toddler routine. How is it that 20 pounds can hurt so damn much? I put her back down on the floor and looked longingly to the bedroom door. Perhaps if I brought her to lay down in the dark room, she would get the idea. So I brought her our darkened bedroom and lay her on the king size bed.

I'm off track here for a moment, but have you ever noticed that a king-size bed suddenly shrinks when you put a squirmy kid in it? Elbows in your face, little feet in your ribs, and the occasional completely random head-butt. (Those are the absolute worst, because while your own head is processing the pain shooting through it, you get the added bonus of a shrieking child to compliment the pain. A feast for your eyes and ears!)

So anyway, after the third head butt, I made an executive decision and lugged the little one to her own bed. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, walking away from that look of betrayal in her eyes. And as I heard her inhale to prepare for the mother of all wailings, I shut the door. Back down in my bedroom, I lay in my bed with the heaviest guilt I ever experienced. I heard her indignant cries coming through the baby monitor....

....for all of two minutes. TWO minutes. And then she went to sleep. Out cold. Gone. I almost wanted to go upstairs and shake her back awake. All that guilt for THIS??? And my mother's voice echoed in my head somewhere...

"Sometimes you have to just let them cry."

Indeed. Lesson learned.

Road Rage is Hereditary

2006-03-01T11:09:00.000-08:00

I spent Mardi Gras weekend down in New Orleans with the parents, and I came to a conclusion. As I watched my father curse, flip the finger and use his massive truck as a weapon, I realized that road rage must be hereditary.

The similarities are astounding. The same reactions to the same situations; someone pulls out in front of you, he's an asshole. Someone driving slow in the fast lane; He's a F$##@$#@ idiot. Someone hits the brakes for no reason; well, that's an excuse to run up on his bumper and flash your lights while over-revving your engine.

But the biggest surprise was how absolutely hysterical I found his tirades. The hypocrisy is not lost on me; if I'm driving, it's a big deal to me, too. But as a passenger, it makes for some pretty good entertainment.

Bird Flu Part 2

2006-03-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

I swear, in a vicious twist of fate, I started to feel better when suddenly, the cough came roaring back, this time accompanied by an unsettling tightness in my chest that resembles having a small child sitting on me. I've never been this sick this long, and it's a little spooky. People in my office are dropping like flies, also. It's enough to turn you into a roaring germophobe. Every time my daughter coughs, I cringe. Everytime I hear someone sneeze, I unconsciously hold my breath for 30 seconds.

I know it's the season for colds, but you'd think there would be a cure for them by now. We can treat a host of exotic diseases, but we can't cure the common cold? Why the hell is my prescription $80? I KNOW the drug companies are getting paid... where is all that money going? Are you telling me test tubes cost $50 each?

God, I start with a rant on germs and end up at healthcare reform.... I'm just SICK of being SICK.

Pet Peeve #164

2006-02-24T10:39:00.000-08:00

I hate when you're in the middle of a conversation and all of a sudden the person you are speaking to holds up their hand (or worse, DOESN'T), pulls out their cell phone and starts having a conversation with someone else.

I HATE cell phones. 99% of the time I don't answer mine, which leads many people to bark at me in frustration, "Well, why do you have one then?" To which I must answer; Necessity. I have a daughter in daycare and if they need me for anything I want to know. Otherwise, I really don''t use it. I hate what they've done to society. They give people an inflated sense of self.

"Look at me! I'm important! Somebody somewhere wants to talk to me!"

Yes, that somebody would be standing directly in front of you RIGHT now, carrying on a conversation when you so RUDELY whip out your cell phone & give them the impression that what they are saying is second-rate compared to your phone call. That's why a large percentage of these phones have VOICE MAIL. Call your buddy back in fifteen minutes. Give me that respect. I earn it for putting up with RUDE people like you. I know that some calls are important; these are not the calls I'm referring to. Your daycare is calling. Your sick mother is calling. Your vet is calling; your dog died in surgery. All legitimate reasons to say "Excuse me for just a minute; I need to take this call." But don't put me on hold to ramble on with your buddy about what one of you did in a drunken fit last weekend, or talk about a shoe sale with your mother. It can WAIT for FIFTEEN minutes until we're done talking.

I think this is why my phone doesn't ever ring....

Hiatus Is Over

2006-02-24T10:37:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the sporadic posts; I've been lying in bed for the past two weeks praying for a swift death. Thankfully, God ignored my pleas and decided to let me suffer and live through the gastrointestinal flu & upper respiratory infection. So I am back with my usual bitching, whining, and pot-stirring....

Pretty Little Germ Ball

2006-02-16T10:37:00.000-08:00

After spending four days without being able to keep food down, I'm starting to look at my daughter differently.

I love her to death, truly. When she reaches up for me to hold her, my heart swells with love and pride unlike anything I've ever known. I am fulfilled as a woman. I am a mother.

And then she moves her precious, pudgy little hands to my face, and my mood quickly changes. There on those seemingly innocent little fingers drips the grimey remains of other children's bacteria, all mixed up and prettily packaged as my beloved toddler tries to shove her fingers into my mouth. It was a game we used to play; Alex points and Mommy chomps. But Mommy hasn't been feeling too well lately, and now I realize why.

I know parents have been swapping germs with their kids since the beginning of time, and I can see how easily it happens. Your child is sick and it is your natural instinct to console them. You kiss their hot little cheeks and stroke their fevered head. But if you don't wash your hands the SECOND you put your little monster down, then it's only a matter of time before you're knocked out too. But NOW, the little monster is feeling better, but you're not, making sickness twice as miserable as it used to be because you can't just lay around and be a slug anymore. Now you're a MOM. And MOMs don't have time to be sick.

Things used to be so simple. Now I have a host of exotic daycare diseases to dodge. It's like playing russian roulette. Maybe next time I'll miss the bullet, but this time, it caught me square in the middle of the head.

Happy VD

2006-02-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

I have never had much luck with Valentine's Day. My first real boyfriend dumped me on VD. My second real boyfriend had to "go to work" early, so I was pretty surprised to find him on a date with another woman later that night (VD, of course). A string of other men, other VD disaapointments. Then came husband #1, who believed VD was a commercial holiday created by advertising executives to fuel the economy, so he refused to participate on principle (in other words, he was just a cheap bastard.) So I thought I was locked into a lifetime of hopeless VD's, but luckily for me, he screwed up bad enough to warrant a divorce, and I was given a second chance.

Enter husband #2. Not your standard romantic. His idea of courtship was spitting on me, so I didn't expect too much. He's not the soft, mushy romantic type; he rarely sends flowers. What he does do are the little things, the tiny things that really matter to me.

I have been sick, sick, sick for the past few days. Nothing I eat will stay down. My head is pounding. I'm laying on the sofa wishing for a swift death, when he walks in with a huge bouquet of beautiful roses & lillies, carrying our daughter on his hip. He bought chicken noodle soup for dinner. And I wanted to cry. He DOES think about things other than the Internet & cars.

So to you, my husband, on Valentine's Day, even though I'm sick as a dog and would rather die than get off the sofa, I want the world to know that you ARE a good husband. You're better than that. You're the GREATEST husband EVER.

Hormonal

2006-02-09T12:18:00.000-08:00

I am an active woman. My schedule would be enough to send many women into fits of hysteria. It has often been commented by friends & family that I work too hard. So I thought nothing of the fact that lately, all I want to do is lay in my über-comfy bed with my warm flannel sheets and poofy goose-down comforter (Thank you, best hubby in the world!) and sleep indefinately. Obviously, I can't do that. There's fat on my ass to be worked off, there's a household to run, a baby to raise, and many, many phone books to be built. Not to mention the side projects that I handle to afford my ever-expanding technology habit.

But lately, it's just been getting harder and harder. I utter the phrase "I need a vacation" with every other breath I take. I find myself staring vacantly at my computer screen for longer periods of time. And the thought of getting up at 4:45am to exercise was starting to make me cry. After all, I'm not losing any more weight. I haven't had an Oreo in over 6 months, and all this deprivation was completely depressing when I wasn't seeing any results. So in a last ditch effort, I went to my doctor & asked to see a dietician. Maybe my diet was out of whack and I was inadvertently starving myself.

What she suggested is every woman's dream come true. My thyroid is SLOW. And when your thyroid is slow, YOU'RE slow. I've never been so happy in my life to be broken. Suddenly, even before drugs, I feel lighter. It's not me! (Well, it is me, but it's a part of me that I have no control over). Hypothyroidism strikes many women after bearing children, but many go undiagnosed because fatigue is a natural part of being a new parent. Thank God I have an astute doctor and a hormone prescription. Maybe now I can find the bright side of life again.

The Woodlands: Preserving Nature

2006-02-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

I'm struck by the irony of The Woodlands. People living in harmony with nature.

Haha. Yeah, right. I drive straight through The Woodlands everyday to go to work, and I see nature preserved all over the roadways.

Today, it was one squirrel and one raccoon. Yesterday, it was a skunk and a possum. And a couple of weeks ago, it was a deer, back legs crippled beyond repair dragging itself across the highway to die in a ditch. (That one will haunt me for quite some time.)

I assume a large portion of the outrageous homeowner fees goes towards "Animal Carcass Removal."

Urban sprawl camoflaged with a couple of trees because a bunch of yuppies want to feel "Closer To Nature." Funny how humans can convince themselves of damn near anything.

Customer Serveless

2006-02-08T09:34:00.000-08:00

I think some higher power is trying to to tell me that I need to cook more.

Saturday evening my husband and I participated in a local redneck event that involved mud and big tires. After an evening of driving through the woods, mudslinging, and dodging other drunk rednecks, it is a redneck tradition to go to an all-night breakfast establishment. Since the trusty Waffle House was in the opposite direction, we decided to go to IHOP (despite the dire consequences it always leaves my husband in).

So we walk in, appropriately camoflaged, and take a seat. And wait. And wait. And wait. The server I assume was neglecting us was over six feet tall with perfectly plucked eyebrows, a large black man with perfectly coiffed hair a la Prince (the Purple Rain edition). He was obviously service-challenged at the moment, because his section was full of pink & black spandex-clad teenage dancers chatting away on their cell phones. At first, my heart went out to him. These Woodlands mini-yentas were rude, demanding and snide. However, I could tell by looking at their tables that they finished and awaiting their bills. SO I afforded him the patience he deserved; I, too, spent eight years in the service industry, so I had a great deal of empathy.

We continued to wait. And wait. And wait. Prince never acknowledged us. He strutted past us on three seperate occasions without a single glance. I started to grow annoyed. I know I LOOKED like an annoying redneck, and nothing irritates an already irritated drag queen more than a redneck, but I am an EXTREMELY generous redneck when it comes to good service. However, Prince's tip was quickly diminishing in my head.

We waited some more. And waited. And waited. At this point, I realized the manager had glanced at us over half a dozen times. Now I was just plain mad. Other servers passed by us without so much as a "Go-to-hell-redneck" look. Absolutely nothing. Prince was rolling his eyes by the cash register, deep in conversation with another shemale. (Who knew IHOP was the day job for so many Houston transvestites?) I'm not the type to get rude with a waiter (they touch your FOOD), but I was extremely annoyed. For the first time in my life, I was mad enough to get up and walk out. So in the ultimate passive-aggressive gesture, we did just that.

And I left my purse sitting in the booth.

I realized it the next morning with that feeling of absolute dread. Not only did I have my social security card in it, I had my daughter's & husband's as well. My driver's license, two credit cards, a handful of gift cards and my prescription. An identity theft package rolled into one little leather-clad gift bag. I called IHOP and was greeted by another highly feminine man-voice.

"I left my purse there last night. Small, black bag. Has my name in it EVERYWHERE. Did somebody turn it in?"

Immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Are you sure? Do you have a safe your manager might have put it in?"

Another immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Could you PLEASE just double check with your manager?"

Big irritated sigh. "HOLD ON." Less than a minute later. "No, no purse. Sorr-reee." Click.

Growing ever more agitated with IHOP in general and shemales in particular, I climbed into my car and drove back to the restaurant. It was extremely busy, as it always is on a Sunday morning. I walked straight past the line at the door and asked the she-man hostess to see the manager (No kidding, I swear.) It rolled it's eyes and walked into the kitchen. A few moments later, a very large, sweaty man came out. I held my hand in front of me in an effort to be civil despite my growing agitation. He completely ignored it.

"Yes, miss?"

"I left my purse here last night. Has anyone turned one in?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Could it be in the safe?"

"No. Are you the lady who called earlier? I told you then that it wasn't here."

My blood began to boil. I know I was the irresponsible one sho left the damn thing, but they could at least afford me the ILLUSION of caring.

"I would like the name of the manager on duty last night, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, lady, but I told you, your purse isn't here. Maybe somebody took it, but it's not here." And with that, Sweaty Manager waddled back towards the kitchen.

And it is with that simple gesture that I swore to never set foot in an IHOP again. My husband is overjoyed.

Life at 11

2006-02-03T00:40:00.000-08:00

My stepson visited last weekend, and I was reminded how simple life used to be. He had received 3 gift cards from Barnes & Noble for Christmas and was dying to use them, so we packed up the family and headed to the mall. Of course, we can't go anywhere without a friend in tow, so our neighbor's kid tagged along for moral support. In a stunning move of unselfishness, I heard my stepson offer to buy his friend something. I was touched by his act of kindness.

An hour later, after I had memorized all the good stuff in the Graphic Design section, I went to round up the children. I found them in the "Gifts" section with an armload of toys and various other items. PBug (the stepson) was trying to mentally calculate how much he had left, so I knew I'd better disappear before I got stuck with the leftover balance.

"I'll be in the car with your dad & sister. You need to go check out now," I told him. I noticed the look of panic set into his face; plan foiled!

"I think I might have too much," he offered sheepishly.

"Then put something back." His buddy, J, suddenly realized the toy in his hands was in jeopardy of being lost. In another stunning act of uncommon kid kindness, he offered to put the toy back so PBug could get his toys. My entire faith in the future generation was restored when PBug again insisted, "No, I promised you I would get you something, too..."

So that's how I left them, to figure out how to solve their dilemna in a civilized and fair manner. After circling the parking lot for fifteen minutes, my husband tells me, "Go check on them."

I walked back in to find them still in the gift section, talking through the problem at hand.

"Well, if you get that, then I can't get THIS, but then, if you get THAT, then we can play with it TOGETHER."

"But I've ALWAYS wanted one of THESE," argues J.

"Where did you find that? I didn't see that. I've always wanted one of THOSE too!"

"Guys," I interjected, "Dad is in the car & he's ready to go. You need to decide on something."

"But I don't think we have enough for everything. We're short by just FIFTEEN DOLLARS..." Hint, hint.

"Sorry guys, I left my purse in the car. Put something back and let's go. I'll be in the car waiting."

So I return to the car. After circling the parking lot for another fifteen minutes, my husband tells me, "GO GET THEM."

I return to find them at the checkout line. There is a huge line formed behind them, and J is holding the place while PBug is running about the store bringing items over for the checkout lady to scan. She is an older lady with kind eyes. Obviously she has grandchildren, because she doesn't seem to be phased by the increasingly irate mob forming behind these darling children.

"Twelve dollars, honey. That's four more than you have."

"Okay, hold on," says PBug. I catch him by the collar.

"No. We have to go. Put something back so we can checkout & leave."

The kind lady smiled patiently. "It's okay, sweetie, he's not bothering me." Obviously, but the look on the people behind her told me that while SHE may not be bothered, THEY definately were.

"Thank you," I told her, then looked down at PBug. "We HAVE to go. Put something back."

He looked down at his pile of treasures with a suffering pout. Unmoved, I gave him the patented NOW stare.
"Well, (sigh).... how much this is?"

Beep. "$14.99."

I grabbed the item in question. "We'll put this back..."
I handed it to PBug, who looked down at the item with a pained expression.

"But it's a QUILL. (Sigh). I've been looking for one of these for HALF MY LIFE...."

Indeed. Every 11-year-old desparately needs a quill. And with that I almost wanted to cry. I can't remember the last time that life was that simple. I wish I had appreciated it more.

Politics

2006-02-01T12:21:00.000-08:00

I'm quickly learning that being a 30-year-old woman in a corporate environment is threatening to some 50-year-old men. I used to think the whole feminist movement was just a bunch of bored women with nothing else to bitch about, but I'm starting to think that perhaps they have a point. It is amazing to me that in this day and age, people still won't take you seriously if you wear a skirt.

My parents taught me that if you work hard, you'll be rewarded. Not true. If you work hard, somebody else will take credit for all your hard work. They taught me if you were honest, you would be respected. Not true. If you're honest, everyone gets their feelings hurt and calls you a bitch. And if you were responsible, then you would be recognized for your accomplishments. Not true. If you're responsible, people will simply whine until they get their way.

What ever happened to a little thing called "work ethic?" Why is it so hard in this day and age for someone to just shut up and do their job?

Perhaps I should install a train horn in my cubicle, too.

Nightmare

2006-01-31T16:52:00.000-08:00

My neighbor was driving my truck. I was rather appalled that she would treat it so carelessly, driving up and down the dam, getting mud all over it. She popped it into 4-wheel drive and climbed up the side of the dam, throwing a trail of mud all over the place and coming precariously close to the edge, straight up to the water. A last minute press of the gas pedal pushed the front of the truck over the dam, leaving us to balance like a see-saw.

I looked over at her with my eyes wide in fright, when she calmly stepped out of the truck. The second she did, the front of the truck took a nose dive straight into the murky green water. The water started rushing in at an alarming rate, so I reached for the window....power locks. The power was gone. I panicked, not thinking to simply pull the lock and try to force open the door. The water was coming in too fast, the front of the truck sinking nose first. I looked up through the back window to see my neighbor peering over, until her face became obscured by the green water.

I fumbled frantically with the seat belt, but I was running out of air. The panic was setting in. I was dying.

My eyes popped open, and I gasped for air. The only sound was the whirring of the ceiling fan overhead and the quiet white noise from the baby monitor. And I could not go back to sleep for anything, my mind racing. What if it happened in real life? What if Alex had been in the backseat, strapped into her carseat? What would I really do in a situation like that?

Do power door locks work when submerged?

Stress

2006-01-26T21:16:00.000-08:00

I allow myself to get entirely too worked up over the stupidest things. I make a PHONE BOOK for a living. Yawn. In one year, all the hard work I put into making this dumb book will be at the bottom of a dumpster or recycling bin. And that's assuming it makes it through the entire year; it might end up as a booster seat for little Timmy (TIMMY!) or as a leg on the broken sofa in somebody's trailer down the street. So who CARES if the the address for John Doe is perfectly correct?

I'll tell you. John Doe cares. John Doe cares so much that he has to call me up and talk my ear off about how inept I am for putting the abbreviation "Dr." instead of spelling out the word DRIVE. Now, I know I just posted about how important accuracy is, but this is a pretty common abbreviation found in the ADDRESS line, and this guy is all bent out of shape because some moron somewhere might mistake the abbreviation for Doctor, and he's not a doctor, he's a plumber.

Well, isn't that enough to make you want to drive a paper clip into your neck.....

Nothing Says Redneck Like....

2006-01-26T01:27:00.000-08:00

...a train horn for your pick-up truck. I have to say, redneck or not, I'm pretty excited about the newest vehicle modification. As I age (not so gracefully), my patience has definately diminished, and I feel the need to contribute to the growing road rage trend. And let's face it, it's really kind of funny. I crack up at the thought of some half-asleep yenta pulling in front of me at the Starbucks line when.....

"BAAAAAAAUUUUUUWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Here comes Amtrak, you rude bitch!"

Hee hee. Yeah, I'm a redneck.

Resumay

2006-01-24T06:54:00.000-08:00

I'm in a bind at work, and I need to hire a temporary artist. So I throw the posting up on a couple of job boards, and a few hours later, I'm buried under a pile of resumés.

Now, I know graphic designers are atrocious spellers. I, myself am a typing train wreck. However, my RESUMÉ is spotless. I let my engineer husband double-check it, and then run it through a rigorous spell-check. Then I stare at it for hours, trying to iron out all the horrible English faux-pas that I have aquired from years in advertising. (My high school English teacher would be apalled). Your resumé speaks volumes about your personality. Seeing as how I'm in the phone book industry, accuracy is not just a plus, it's a requirement.

So I'm looking at these things, and I weep for humanity. Here's a few tips for you Gen Y's who are currently job shopping:

1. Don't use big words that you're not familiar with. (Ex. "I enjoy many forms of art from painting to ceramics and have truly missed the pleaser that comes with creating new and exciting works of art be it on a canvas or a computer.)

2. Dust off the old English book on adjectives. (Ex. "I can utilize my creative ability and education to my fullest potential.")

3. Even though it's email, CAPITALIZE. (Ex. "please feel free to contact me at anytime.")

4. If you're interviewing for a Graphic Designer position, do NOT send this to me.... (Ex."I am proficient in the following software programs: Microsoft Word, Excel, Outlook, and PowerPoint.")

I know I'm being harsh, but this is a CAREER. I made the choice to do this for a living, and it is truly insulting to me that people like this are getting jobs while I'm being passed over.

You can have all the talent in the world, but if you can't get your own information correct, how can I trust you to get my customer's stuff right?

In the CD Player Currently...

2006-01-20T10:38:00.000-08:00

Nickelback - Animals
Nine Inch Nails - Only
Micheal Bublé - Feeling Good
Blackeyed Peas - My Humps

I am a diverse and musically challenged individual.

Undermined

2006-01-19T10:08:00.000-08:00

I had an altercation with a co-worker today that left me with a not-so-fuzzy feeling.

I was recently promoted, which puts me in the same circle as this person. I made a decision and enforced it, and immediately received a phone call. I had spoken to my boss prior to making the decision, and he backed me up on it, so I was pretty confident that I had made the right one. Until the call came.

"Why did you do this?"
"Because allowing it to happen would be bad business."
"But I signed off on it."
"I realize that, but that doesn't make it right."
"Well, you just basically overrulled my decision and made me look bad in front of my staff."

I paused for a moment. So he wanted me to reverse my decision and make ME look bad in front of MY staff so that he could save face for making a bad decision?

"I understand that you're not happy about it, and I'm willing to discuss it, but it doesn't change the fact that it's bad business."
"Well that's the way business has always been done until you came along."

Ahhh...Ouch. So are we saying I don't know what I'm doing? Doubt started to creep in. Maybe it wasn't a good decision; after all, in the end the customer may suffer. Now he was under my skin.

"That still doesn't make it right. I have a department to run."
"I'm just telling you this is the way it has always been done. If I sign off on something, then there's obviously a reason that I signed off on it, and you don't need to question that." (So basically, anytime this man signs off on something, right or wrong, my opinion isn't worth shit. Hmmm.)

"Fine, we'll do it this time, but it will be addressed in the future."
"Uh huh, okay. I have real business to attend to now." Click.

And as I replayed the conversation over and over in my head, I began to grow angry. I had just been a victim of the "hard close." Seeing that I'm married to a salesman, I usually see that tactic a mile away. But mixed with a good healthy dose of condescension and intimidation, it's a little bit harder to deal with than I anticipated.

Welcome to management. I'll be ready next time.

DOOCED

2006-01-17T00:32:00.000-08:00

I stumbled across another blog the other day that had me in tears. I was laughling so hard I thought I would pee on myself. The woman, an ex-web designer (already, I like her), was fired from her trendy LA job when she made work-related posts about her job. (Now I REALLY like her).

I cannot tell you how many times I've vented on this site, only to hit the erase button after feverishly typing for twenty minutes. There is always this FEAR that maybe, just maybe, the wrong person will stumble across it and you will pay dearly for stating your opinion in a public forum. Maybe my mother-in-law might take something the wrong way, maybe my father will get his feelings hurt. Maybe someone I work with has a personal vendetta against me that I don't know about (the copy of Photoshop on my laptop is licensed, I SWEAR). So while I was reading this woman's site, I realized these fears are rooted in good, old-fashioned common sense. It DOES happen. It's not fair, but it does. Do I have potential clients who don't use my services because I curse on my site? Should I censor myself?

Surely, work-related details have no business on the Web. That, I can agree with. But where should you draw the line on your opinions, especially when your blog is linked to your corporate site?

In my personal opinion, I don't particularly care if they don't agree. Right now, my income is not dependent on my freelance design. It's just a side project. Plus, if said person does not agree with my views & chooses not to use me simply because of that, well then, I don't think working with them would have been all that fun, anyway. So until I have to depend on the whims of perfect strangers, screw you! I'll say what I want.

:)

Pet Peeve #39

2006-01-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

I HATE it when someone talks over someone else. It drives me absolutely insane. It is beyond rude. But even worse than the rude over-talker, is the over-talker who starts over-talking and completely changes the subject, like you were never saying anything to begin with.

I have a neighbor who is basically a nice guy. He thinks he knows everything, which gets on some people's nerves, but me, I just see it as a cry from his low self-esteem. So I don't take it personally when he launches into an "I know more than you" tirade and tries to take control of the conversation. I do, however, draw the line when he starts talking like I was sitting quietly. I started to jump into a conversation, and he began talking. I sat there quietly fuming for a few moments, but I kept my cool, silently fighting the urge to thump him squarely on the back of the head. A few moments later, I saw an opportunity to point it out.

"Did you not realize I was saying something a moment ago?" I asked him quietly.

"What do you mean?" he said with a puzzled look on his face.

"I was speaking, and you began talking like I wasn't saying anything. You've done it quite a few times now. I just wanted to know if you found me that boring or if you were just being rude." He looked back at me with a surprised look on his face.

"Gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that," he apologized. I somehow doubted that, but I decided to forgive and forget. It didn't happen again the rest of the evening.

Sometimes it pays to speak what's on your mind, as long as you wait your turn.

The Hypocylpse

2006-01-11T18:39:00.000-08:00

I overheard a couple of my co-workers talking today, and I had to smile..

"Did you hear about the wildfires in North Texas? And what about the earthquakes in Afganistan? Between those, the tornados and the hurricanes, I think it might be the apocylpse..."

"I know, it's like God's trying to shake the bad people off the earth... all those Muslims have to pay for not praising Jesus..." (because we all know that the Midwest is overrun with Muslims, especially northern Texas)

"Well, our pastor said last Sunday that it was the time to repent and pray for all those people over there. He didn't say that the end was coming or anything, but he did say that these were signs from God." (And some would say it's the effects of global warming, but who am I to argue with God?)

"I think it's a good thing, personally. All those people crammed into that small space, they were probably miserable anyway."

And the same thing could be said about New York. It amazes me how much we take for granted.

Stupid Hat

2006-01-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

Bra Nazi

2006-01-08T08:28:00.000-08:00

Once a year I make the dreaded trek down to the local mall to replace the most cherished of my undergarments; my bras. This is only a yearly event because the price of a standard over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder borders on ridiculous. I go once, stock up, and put the experience out of my mind until the following year. It's traumatic on a few different levels because 1) I'm not really a "mall" girl, but Victoria's Secret is the one place I can find a non-itchy bra, 2) it reminds me how completely out of touch I am with today's fashion trends, and 3) the "retail assistants" at Victoria's Secret would make Hitler proud.

Immediately upon entering the store, I am "greeted" by a svelte, trendy twenty-something dressed in black.
"Can I help you?" Cold, condenscending and clever. Just like I remembered.

"Yes," I reply, "I need a demi-bra, padded, no lace." I answer. She immediately turns on her heel and heads to the back. I assume I'm supposed to follow, so I meekly push my child's stroller through the maze of scanitlly clad manequin torsos towards the back where the "retail assistant" is waiting with an impatient look on her face. "What color?"

"Nude & black, please." She immediately thrusts two bras at me without asking my size. I looked at the tag; 36B.
"I just had a baby," I offered, hoping for a C cup. Her gaze did not waver; there was no room for discussion.
I took the bras and headed for the dressing room. As I closed the door, I was greeted by a full length mirror; more trauma. Tyra Banks stared over my shoulder.

I was happy to find that the 36 did not accentuate the dreaded "back fat." (girls know what I'm talking about). And since childbirth, the B part filled in nicely. All-in-all, not too traumatic. Tyra looked over my shoulder condescendingly.

"You'll never look like this, sweetheart," she sneered in her trademark model pout. I looked down at the extra 20 pounds, then back at Tyra.

"Yeah, well let's see what YOU look like after you marry a man addicted to Mexican food and pop a kid or two out. Bet your boobs won't be so perky THEN, sister!" And with that, I dropped a kiss on my infants' head before I wheeled her out of the dressing room, leaving Tyra all alone in her sad little dressing room.

Some things are better than beauty.

New Years Resolution Envy

2006-01-05T15:01:00.000-08:00

I hate New Years resolutions, simply because once a year, every year, I'm reminded that I'm a huge failure at something. So then I have to make an effort to get better, and usually sometime around mid-March I start to slack, and somewhere around June I've forgotten totally until next year, where the vicious cycle begins all over.

But even worse than that, is when others feel the need to tell you what their resolutions are, and then you realize, "Damn, I don't do that either," and it, too becomes part of the yearly cycle of failures.

My neighbor told me, "I resolve to lose weight (check), yell at my kids less (um, not me YET), and floss every single day (damn, me too!)" So now flossing becomes a temporary obsession, so much so that I have to go out IMMEDIATELY and buy one of those flossers with a handle and a six month supply of refills. Considering I already have a problem getting to work on time, I don't think my boss will be any more sympathetic when I smile sheepishly and offer, "But I had to floss for five minutes... oral hygeine is very important to me..."

In which I am sure the reply would be something like, "Then perhaps you should think about LESS Starbucks!"

Adjustments

2006-01-04T12:31:00.000-08:00

I came to a realization as I danced through the land mines that inevitably explode when you get family together for the holidays. I found myself adjusting my beliefs and attitudes depending on who I was talking to, and it disturbs me now because I realize, I should just be myself.

I'm sure that everyone has a relative that you KNOW, you just need to keep your mouth shut. You will ALWAYS offend them in some way. They will ALWAYS critisize you in some way. You will NEVER be right. They know EVERYTHING. And they are never, never, never in the slightest way hypocritical. Oh no, because that would just make everything they preach completely irrelevant. Do you know this person? Do you recognize them in your family? Do you have one too?

I have a completely different personality around these relatives. It is amazing what lengths you will go to preserve peace in your family. How you will almost bite your tongue off, how you will watch others squirm and be selfishly grateful that thank God, it's not you. How you will stand by uncomfortably and watch someone else endure a tirade without opening your mouth to save them. I will stand up for perfect strangers in public, but with family, you just keep your mouth shut. It's better that way. Because in the end, you LOVE these people. They are a part of you. If you ruin a perfect stranger's day, it doesn't really matter. If you ruin a relative's day, they will return the favor for the rest of your life....

Those Forgotten

2005-12-23T06:38:00.000-08:00

There's so many people I"ve lost touch with in my life that I miss. People I worked with, people I hung out with, people who made me laugh and people who saved my life. Here are some I wish I could get in touch with:

Carrie Brill - you were my guardian angel in Memphis, Tennessee. I envied your bohemian lifestyle and carefree attitude towards life. Your trip across the country went terribly awry after a one-night-stand ended up a serious relationship. My favorite moment; you were working smoking on a crowded Friday night, and came out of the kitchen with a huge tray of food and then CRASH! You dropped it. Instead of getting flustered, you stood there and laughed. And when I came out of the kitchen with a huge tray in the non-smoking dining room, I saw your mess, started to laugh, and dropped my tray, too. We both stood there, in two crowded dining rooms with irate customers laughing at each other.

Brandon Metheny, the grill cook with the devil in his pants - I never thanked you for the day you emptied out the kitchen and chased my stalker out of the parking lot. You probably saved my life; you definately saved me from getting a black eye, which would have been hard to explain to the management. I hope you never cut your hair, even though they kept threatening to fire you. I hope your followed your dream to be a musician and got out of that kitchen.

Tammy Kelley - I owe you the biggest apology ever. You were the friend who had my back at the lowest time of my life; if not for you, I might have ended up dead in the woods. You were strength when I didn't have any. I allowed our friends to treat you horribly. I should have been more mature. I should have not gotten involved in petty girl crap. I should have asked you to stand in my wedding. If it makes you feel better, I ended up divorced. You really didn't miss much. I hope things worked out for you. I hope you found happiness.

Faye, the waitress with Rod Stewart hair - you were my mother in Memphis. You allowed me to vent, you took me under your wing, and you were always there to listen. I hope hormone therapy helped you; I know how bad you felt.

Kathy Corkern - You pretended to be flaky, but I knew you were always much smarter than you let on. You were the most tolerant person I ever knew, long before I came to appreciate tolerance for what it can accomplish. I hope you got your job teaching art. You really should teach a lesson on balloon animals. I miss you lots, and hope your marriage is as great as mine.

These are just five of many, many people that I wish I'd kept in touch with. Sacha & Stacey Swenson, Billy the linebacker, Ashton Williams, Jack Montgomery, Kevin & Jason, everybody at Cracker Barrel #36 in Memphis, a few from #138 in Slidell (I still know all my letters & numbers, by the way), people who made me what I am, I miss you all, and wish I'd been as good a friend to you as you were to me. Have a great New Year, where ever you are.

A Reminder

2005-12-21T08:13:00.000-08:00

It's so easy to forget, nestled in my my snug, warm little home, that there are thousands of people in Louisiana who are suffering through this Christmas. But after months of "Please Help Katrina Survivors," the rest of the country has become weary. They've given millions of dollars and tons of merchandise, so Louisiana should be okay by now, right?

I visited home last weekend, and I am sad to say, it's still not close to normal. Piles of debris are still lined up on the sides of the streets. The twisted pine trees serve as a constant reminder; Mother Nature waits in silence, until she's had enough of the human race's pollution and selfishness. The work has only just begun.

I know in my heart that it is wrong to shut out the pain and suffering of these people, but I've given and given until I just don't want to hear about it anymore. It's never enough. If I gave up everything I owned, there would still be more need, so much more than anyone can afford to give. This year in particular, I am more aware of people's needs than ever before. But for the sake of my own sanity, I have to push it away, just for a little while, so I can appreciate what I DO have. I need to snuggle up to my daughter in our nice, warm house, under our pile of non-American-Red-Cross issued blankets, eat a bag of chips without regard to the thousands without food, just for ONE DAY.

Tomorrow there will still be need. Tomorrow I will have the resolve to face it without a sense of hopelessness.

But today, I just want to be selfish.

Christmas Card Envy

2005-12-20T06:21:00.000-08:00

How do people do it? Every day the amount of Christmas Cards in my mailbox grows exponentially, and I look at the stack of half-addressed cards on my kitchen table and go into a guilt kvetch. The worst ones are when you get a card from somebody and realize, "CRAP! They're not on my list!" Then you have to scrounge around the house for an extra card (because you're always ONE CARD SHORT), but to no avail. And then it's back to the store to fight the other last-minute shoppers to grab one package of cards (which will ultimately get lost before next year) so that you can make sure everyone you know gets some form of correspondence.

But the real question is, why didn't I keep up with these people throughout the year? People I worked with, old friends, family... Sure, I had a baby this year, but some of them have two and three children of their own, and they managed to get a card to me already, smiling baby pictures included.

And let's not even talk about the Christmas letter... if you do it one year, it becomes a tradition, and you can't break tradition... it's unlucky. So I must sit down and try to think of something clever and witty, but when the pressure is on, I crack. Two days after I send the letters out, it will come to me.

"Damn, I wish I had written that down!"

Underage Blogging

2005-12-19T12:20:00.000-08:00

I think blogging is an awesome idea for the next generation. To have freedom to speak your mind and actually have people interested, that's a great thing. Blogging is an outlet; everyone has something to say. And just like the radio, if you don't like it, don't go to that site.

But do teenagers have the right to blog? Should their parents have the right to tell them that they can or can't post their thoughts to the Internet? Definately a sticky situation; in the role of a parent, my views on this have changed. I don't want pictures of my daughter floating on the Internet for creepy child molestors to peruse. Nobody is safe on the Net; IP addresses are fairly easy to locate with the slightest bit of computer knowledge. Like you, reading right now, I can track your IP address. But I don't. And most people won't. But as a mother, you worry about that kind of stuff.

And as a mother, you also worry about the mental state of your child. But the Internet is a good place to figure out what's going on in your kid's head. If they're posting an online diary, they make it pretty easy for you to check up on them. So do you tell them to take it down? Or do you give them that outlet, and use it against them later? My mother read my diary when I was growing up; I hated her at the time, but I'm sure I gave her good reason to do it. I was running with a really bad crowd, and she was worried for my safety & well-being.

But blogging makes it incredibly easy to check up on your kids. There's no lock to pick. In essence, it's simply a means of communication. If you read something on your kid's site that you don't like, maybe you should take a look at yourself as a parent and wonder why they didn't share it with you to begin with. Use it as a tool to help you understand your child better. But don't try to stifle their views; in a few short years, they'll be gone, and that chance to communicate will be long gone, too.

Chivalry is NOT Dead, Just On Vacation

2005-12-15T00:07:00.000-08:00

A response from a previous post got me thinking about chivalry in our society today. Men seem to be caught in a politically correct quandry. Basically, if you do practice good manners, you're considered old-fashioned. You probably still live at home with your Mom, drive a Ford pick-up truck, talk softly and labor with your hands. If you don't, you're a high-powered arrogant ass who has no regard for women or an ignorant redneck from the sticks whose mom lives in a trailer. What's a poor guy to do? What the hell do women expect from you, anyway?

In the case of my husband, chivalry prevailed, sort of. On our second date, he opened all the doors for me (and still does to this day, most of the time). I was impressed by a telephone conversation he had with his mother, very polite, very caring. When I appeared cold, he adjusted the air conditioning in his truck (Ford) without me having to utter a single word.

And when he took a sip out of his water bottle, he spit on me.

Not like hocking a loogy or anything, more like a cherub in a fountain. Spit water directly at me. I was in shock. Here's this guy, only the second time he's seen me in his life, who had opened the door and complimented me, talked with his mother and was acutely aware of my comfort factor, only to complete the destroy the whole illusion by spitting on me.

I figured, "What the hell?" and stuck around to see where it went from there. I figured any guy with the cahones to spit on a girl he barely knew as a means of impressing her might have a new perspective on life that I hadn't thought of. And what do you know? I married him....

Working Mom Meltdown

2005-12-14T08:26:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of days that I leave my house with frizzy hair, smeared makeup (if any), and no keys. It's the plight of a mother to always be frazzled, but add "Working" in front of it, and it's a whole new ballgame. So it is with great wonder that I observe some of the women when I drop my daughter off at daycare. How do they get so polished? How do they keep it all together? Some of them have two and three kids, and still maintain perfect French manicures. It makes me feel inadequate, unorganized and at times, horribly alone. Until today...

As I pull up, I notice a beautiful, skinny blonde in crisp business attire talking to a walking Baby Gap ad. This little boy had cherubic cheeks a la Norman Rockwell, but the scowl was pure rotten three-years-old. Mommy was trying to coax him into the building, but his Baby Timberlands were glued firmly and solidly to the concrete sidewalk.

"C'mon, Jeffy, Mommy has to go to work," cajoled the blonde, her perfect anchorwoman hair framing a sweet and caring expression. She held her hand out to Jeffy, but Jeffy was not the least bit interested. His chin was now almost hidden from view in a perfect preschool pout, head down, lip even lower.

"C,mon, Jeffy, NOW." The tone a little more firm, Mommy reached over and tried to pull him by the hand, but Jeffy yanked his hand away and tucked them high beneath his armpits. I could see the tantrum bubbling like lava in a volcano. Mommy was completely oblivious to the impending doom, still thinking she could persuade little Jeffy to bend to her will.

"JEFFREY, I said NOW!" She grabbed his elbow (since his hands had disappeared), and that's when it happened. Bubbling, up & up, until BOOM! And out comes the ear-splitting screech of a seriously pissed-off three-year-old:

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" And that was follwed with a machine gun volley of "NO's." "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, etc."

I watched with intense fascination. Here was Deborah Norville's twin sister, a portrait of grace and sophistication, the woman with her cake, the ability to eat it, and not even gain an ounce while doing it. Lincoln Navigator, Prada bag, Botox smile. I know she would impart to me some ounce of Mommy wisdom so that someday, I, too, might be able to get it together and balance it all effortlessly.

And that's when she picked up the screaming toddler, tucked him under her arm like a linebacker headed for the in-zone, and plowed straight through the daycare door.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. And it made me feel so much better. Even perfect people aren't perfect.

Door Etiquette

2005-12-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

At least twice a day I get caught in some kind of door predicament. In an effort to be polite, I often hold the door for those behind me, or if an elderly person is walking towards the door, I will try to walk faster to open it for them. But this can sometimes lead to some pretty awkward situations:

Door Limbo: When you open the door outwards in an attempt to let the outside person in, but they stand there and hold the door for you. You go. No, you go. No, YOU go. Then you both try to go at the same time and the whole scenario repeats itself.

Door Stop: You open the door for one person, and a barrage of people come through.

Door Jacker: A woman opens the door for an older man, who takes offense to it and decides to stop and hold the door for you instead.

Elevator Door: The doors are closing, closing, closing when you see someone dashing for the crack, and you struggle to press the right button but end up pressing the DOOR CLOSE button instead. Oops. Sorry.

Fat Lady In A Little Doorway: A rotund person tries to hold the door open for you by leaning against it, but their, um, ROTUNDNESS sticks out and prevents you from making it through without rubbing up against them in some way, which results in a dirty look. Like you were trying to be perv with a fat chick.

Bird Flu

2005-12-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

I am not one who is easily scared by the media. After all, I AM the media, and I know that some stories are exagerrated for sensationalism. But this constant barrage of bird-flu stories is starting to get to me.

Last year it was sharks. Anybody who swims in the Gulf of Mexico is going to be eaten alive by some monster great white. I grew up on the Gulf of Mexico; the only thing that ever bit me was a jellyfish. So I looked at the attention as just another slow news day.

But the flu... it's just the flu, right? An annoying cold that only kills old people with weakened immune systems and poor children with ignorant parents. How many times in your life have you had the flu? So what's the big freaking deal? How does it actually kill someone? Then I read an article in National Geographic this weekend, and suddenly, I am SCARED. Not for my own life so much, but I have an infant daughter in a ethnically diverse daycare, and it only takes one traveling person to bring this flu to Houston and it will spread like wildfire.

The big deal is that, with a new strain of flu, the body has no immunity to this particular strain. The flu that you get every year is basically a mutation of the prior year, so your body recognizes parts of it, adapts, and you blow green snot while your immune system figures out how to kill it. Few days of missed work, lots of hot tea, toast, and warm blankies. But when a brand-new flu strain arrives, there is nothing for your immune system to recognize; it basically sends a barrage of white blood cells to your lungs, which acts like "trucks of dynamite," until your lungs fill with fluid, you suffocate slowly and die. There is no cure, and it usually happenes within a week that you contract the virus.

Until scientists can isolate the virus and develop a vaccine, it will continue to spread. The big deal is this; will we have enough vaccine if or when this creepy crap starts to spread? A few years ago, I'd just shrug and say, "Well, I'll just play the odds. If God wants me, he'll take me." But now, I have a baby to think of. If I had to watch my daughter suffer this way, I would be ready to go with her. The thought makes my heart stop.

She goes for her nine month checkup tomorrow. She will be getting a flu shot, and this year, I will, too.

Websites

2005-12-09T11:17:00.000-08:00

Websites are a major pain in the arse. I put mine up shortly after January 1st of this year, and it's STILL not finished. How do these other designers find time to keep updating constantly? And I was so proud of myself for keeping it dynamic, but I'm too lazy to even type out a dumb little text file or format a few pictures....

Cody

2005-12-08T13:36:00.000-08:00

Last week, a sixteen year old boy was struck by a van and died. He was riding to school on his motorcycle, and the van decided to make a left turn onto the street he was riding on. He was thrown from the bike and apparently broke his neck on impact, dying instantly. The van had eight Hispanic workers in it who fled the scene at first, but then returned.

There are two entrances into my neighborhood, and that morning I took the other one, missing this scene. Unfortunately, many of my neighbors didn't. It happened around 7:30am, right about the time everyone is heading out. Many of my neighbors had their small children in their cars. Here at Christmastime, it truly put a damper on the spirit. Later that day, stuffed animals and cards started to appear. By the end of the day, an ornate gold cross was added to the scene. The next morning, that cross was gone.

(What kind of bastard would steal a cross from an accident site?)

His name was Cody. His ghost lingers there; none of us can pass the site without wondering how it could happen, and in a sick way, thanking God that it wasn't one of our own children.

Blank Slate

2005-12-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

Today I am faced with one of the hardest design challenges of my entire career. I have an ad, the size of a business card, to be designed for one of the bitchiest, pickiest, and most critical clients ever.

Me.

I finally made the commitment to advertise, (and when I say commitment, I'm talking CONTRACT, legal & binding) and I only have one shot to get it right because once it's done, it's DONE for an entire year and there is no way to change it. There's only one other designer with an ad, and it's very simple, small, and tastefully done. My ad will be bigger and fall in front of hers, so the pressure is immeasurable. Do I go for techey, or classic? Color or white space? Do I list everything I do, or just put my website & hope they'll come? ARRGGGHHH! Add the pressure that the other three designers here are looking ("Sure, Kristie, it looks great!" & then they turn to each other with that OH MY GOD look), and I really am starting to understand why other designers send in a blank slate & tell me to design their ad. It seems like sacriliege; letting another designer design YOUR ad, but I swear, it suddenly makes sense! Of course, his will never be perfect either, but at least when someone comments on it you can be catty & say, "Oh my God! That piece of crap? I was just SO BUSY with all my REAL work that I let some poor little designer do it for me...."

Funny. That poor little designer is me!

Traffic Vultures

2005-12-07T08:31:00.000-08:00

On my way home yesterday, I was detained in some hellish traffic on a side road. As I got closer to the flashy lights, I expected to see a ten car pile-up; all that was there was a broken Civic and THREE tow trucks.

I'm not real good at math, (that's why I became an artist), but I'm pretty sure it doesn't take three trucks to tow a tiny little Honda. But there they were, side-by-side-by-side, blocking the turning lane and causing traffic to back up all the way to I-45. That's when I got mad.

I've seen them before, in the strip mall parking lots, congregated together in little flocks, just waiting for some poor, unsuspecting motorist to screw up. God help you if you're in their way when the call comes; I've almost been flattened more times than I can count in their hurry to get out of the parking lot. Circling, circling, waiting to devour the remains of some busted compact car or wounded SUV. Completely oblivious to the flow of traffic (or lack of) that surrounds them.

I watched with growing agitation as they stood by, waiting for the poor unsuspecting motorist to finish her cell phone conversation. Do they argue over who gets to peck first? Do they quote prices in a little pecking war?

Do they HAVE to block the damn turning lane???

Observation On An Off-Ramp

2005-12-02T01:52:00.000-08:00

There's a vagrant standing there with the standard vagrant sign, "Will Work For Food." A man in an SUV reaches out of the window and hands the vagrant some money. Immediately, the scruffy-looking man returns to the side of the road, gathers his backpack and plastic bag, and walks over to the overpass. He tucks his cardboard sign admist the gnarled vines along the side of the overpass and sets off walking in the direction of Wal-Mart.

Coffee break? Or unspoken act of courtesy for the next vagrant at the same overpass?

And what would happen if somebody stole it?

My Favorite Monsters

2005-11-30T16:44:00.000-08:00

Ain't No Harlem Black Girl

2005-11-29T08:24:00.000-08:00

I have my parents to thank for my very diverse taste in music. My current mix CD in my truck contains Black-Eyed Peas, Gwen Stefanti, Sia, Credence Clearwater, The Judds, Missy Elliot, and Big & Rich. (The other two CDs also have no logical order). So the last time my mom visited, my husband was shocked to hear this 50 year old grandma singing along with all the pop hits as well as the classic rock stuff. Of course, my husband rarely recognizes many of these songs as remakes, which gives my mother the upper hand in the lyric department. But during this last visit, she stumbled.

"Few times, been around that track, not gonna end up like that, 'cause I ain't no harlem black girl, I ain't no harlem black girl..."

"What?" my husband interrupts.

"Ain't no harlem black girl," my mom replies. My husband erupts into laughter (which is ironic to me, because one of the things I originally found endearing about his personality was his ability to butcher song lyrics).

"No, it's HollaBACK girl. Hollaback. Like a cheerleader."

"Oh," my mom smiled. "I guess that makes more sense."

Sing on, Mom. You ain't no harlem black girl...

Turn That Frown Into A Chai Eggnog Latte

2005-11-28T14:01:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning with the familiar sense of dread; I had to go to work. The frown that is now permanently etched into my forehead (thank you, 30) was particularly pronounced today. The thought of ad after boring ad made me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head until January (Then I wouldn't have to deal with Christmas, either). Even the baby didn't want to get up; her little face scrunched up in annoyance as I pulled her across the bed, her eyes shut tight. But I got up and trudged through my morning routine, because if I don't go today, it just gets worse tomorrow.

When I arrived at work (late, as usual), my co-worker was getting into his car to leave. Could it be...Yes! Thank God! A Starbucks run! But what should I get?

Chai Eggnog Latté. Hell yeah. All the mystery of the Middle East, a hint of clove, a dash of cinnamon, mixed with the rich, buttery Christmas spirit of eggnog! Warm, comforting, but still enough caffiene to kick you in the ass and get you moving. And that's when I had today's epiphany;

This warm fuzzy feeling is what Christmas is all about. For a limited time only.

Feeling Froggy

2005-11-27T23:20:00.000-08:00

Dare I write about religion in a primarily Republican, Christian neighborhood? I simply have to; I have said before that I am a woman of principle, and if you're going to trample into my private space with your strong opinions, then I should be allowed to voice mine also.

I grew up in a VERY Catholic family. My grandmother's house was directly behind the small Catholic church (pre-Katrina). Every Sunday we would go to mass, then walk to my grandmother's house where my family would proceed to get completely drunk and trash everyone in the community. (My parents sheltered me from the brunt of this; we often left before the true hatefulness began). So I learned that being a Sunday Christian was sufficient enough to get me into Heaven.

Some years later, I moved to Memphis, and had to work as a waitress to put myself through school. I was taking the maximum alloted hours every semester, so that meant the majority of my money was earned on the weekends. During this experience, I met two die-hard Southern Baptists who helped me form my very rigid ideas about organized religion.

The first was a woman named Tara. Tara was thirty-eight years old. She was an attractive brunette, pretty blue eyes, who was in the business of shopping for a husband. Tara could not work on Sunday mornings or Wednesday nights; she was a devout Baptist who at every turn was trying to "save" me. (She didn't appreciate my Catholic humor; I could sin repeatedly as long as I confessed). What truly struck me about Tara was that no matter how vile customers treated her, no matter how mean or condescending the managers were, no matter how many failed dates she went on, she never wavered in her faith. At 38, she was a virgin, and still refused to give up her principles. I admired her so much for that, that I actually attended church with her one Sunday. I felt that I owed her that much. I didn't agree with everything I heard there, but I respected her beliefs. After I went, she understood that it wasn't the religion for me, and she didn't push the issue anymore. She remained my friend, and we continued to talk for quite a few years until we lost touch.

The second Baptist to enter my life in that period of time was a very, very popular minister. The church had a following of over 30,000; I would swear to this day that he would make an announcement at the end of the service for everyone to meet at the restaurant because without fail, every Sunday after church, the place would go on an hour wait at 11:00am. The round table was reserved for this prominent minister (who drove a brand-new black Mercedes SUV) and the most prized members of his flock (all decked out in their Sunday diamonds). Since I was one of the more experienced waitresses, I usually ended up with this table.

Now, on a side note, I must tell you, something about church makes people MEAN. These church-goers were the rudest, more inconsiderate, hateful (not to mention CHEAP) customers on the planet. I have been cursed at by the finest of God's children, only to have them return to their prayer conversation and talk about how wonderful Heaven was going to be. But the crowning moment for me involved this minister.

Upon appraoching his table to take their drink order, he immediately assualted me verbally.
"Why didn't you go to church today, young lady?"
I blinked. Deer-in-headlights.
"Don't you know that Jesus died so that you could be here today? So that you may be relieved of your transgressions and enter the gates of Heaven to go home to God?" Amen go the sheep. Lots of nodding around the table.
"Well, sir, somebody has to serve you, right?" I said it in a joking manner, with a harmless-silly-little-waitress smile. Dead silence. Nothing. Extremely awkward. After moment he dismissed me with a wave of his bejeweled fingers; sinner. Satan's spawn, worthy only of crawling to kitchen and fetching his food. Try as I might, I could not make this man happy. He sent everything back, twice. He insisted I'd forgotten things, only for me to point them out on his table. The final straw was when I was walking out of the kitchen with a coffee pot on my tray for another table, when he raised his jeweled fingers and SNAPPED them at me like a common serving wench.
"Coffee." He pointed at the cup on the table. I looked this arrogant preacher straight in his eyes and with the last shred of dignity I had left, I answered him.
"Yes, sir, it sure is."
And with that, I walked directly past him to my waiting table, then walked straight past him again without so much as a sideways glance into the kitchen.

Strange that this response seemed to amuse him. Every Sunday after that, this man actually REQUESTED me. And every Sunday he ran me through the ringer, and every Sunday I would treat him like the hypocrite he was. One Sunday I asked him why didn't he preach kindness in his church. The sheep were appalled, but he just laughed. Another Sunday I informed him that Christians shouldn't treat waitresses like dirt. Again, he laughed. And his personal favorite, after a $3 tip for eight people, I told him that even Jesus had to pay bills. (After that, he actually began leaving me $5 every Sunday for a party of eight!)

My point is, and I do have one, that just becuase you're part of an organized religion with a big bankroll, the principles behind the religion are what's important to me. I shopped around for a religion that fit me, and I really could not find one. So I live this way; I try to treat others as I'd like to be treated. I try to live a good life and help as many people as I can along the way. I believe in God; I don't necessarily believe that God needs to be his name. I believe that the Bible was written by a bunch of men in a time where women weren't exactly treated fairly. There may be truth in it, there may not, and it's up to you to decide that for yourself. If you choose to believe it, and live by it, then I will respect you for it. If you choose to use it's words against me then proceed to treat me like dirt while you praise yourself, then I have no qualms about turning my back to you and waiting for God to get you in the end.

I'm not perfect, by any means. But I don't use the Bible to justify my bad behavior. I leave the judging up to God. I think he's the only one truly qualified to decide.

Deleted Post

2005-11-26T14:34:00.000-08:00

I have posted three explosive rants over the past week, all over one single work-related topic, only to read them and take them back down. "Don't blog angry," I tell myself. The repercussions could cost me a promotion somewhere down the line. But that brings up an interesting topic. How easy it is to forget that an entire online community now has access to my innermost feelings.

My mother asked me the other day, "What'a a BLOG, anyway?"
"Basically it's an online diary."
"Can't anybody hack into that??" My mother. She's so cute in her technilogical naivité.
"Yes, Mom, that's the point. Anybody can read it. It encourages conversation."

I believe my mother thinks that everyone on the Internet is some kind of freak. Perhaps they are. I met my husband on the Internet; many people would agree that he's not particularly right in the head. But then, I feel more comfortable having a conversation with a graphic pen in my hand, when I can take my time and contemplate a witty comeback. Real life is so much harder; I've always been one of those people who has something clever to say five minutes too late. But the same principles apply here; don't say anything that may come back to haunt you later.

Don't blog angry. It's my new mantra.

Grief

2005-11-16T16:38:00.000-08:00

A close friend of the family had a personal crisis recently, and it got me thinking about my life.

I have never known grief. I've been sad, I've been pretty down & out occasionally, but even when I hit my all-time personal low, I still did not know grief. I've never had anyone close to me die, and I'm not quite sure what will happen when I do.

It brings me back to emphasize something I wrote in an earlier post. My reaction to many things in my life is one of removed indifference. Almost like I'm watching from the outside. So I wonder, when someone close to me goes, will I finally feel a depth of emotion that has previously eluded me?

RudeBitch.org

2005-11-14T14:22:00.000-08:00

I'm waiting in line at a particularly crowded Starbucks drive-thru the other day. The line is backed up so far that I have to wait on the street. So here I am, waiting patiently with my little blinker on, blinky-blinky, blinky-blinky, when this very RUDE woman in a white Nissan XTerra dives in front of me, not only cutting in front of me but blocking the flow of traffic in TWO directions.

BOTH WAYS!

The rage boiled over. I gave her the finger and yelled a few obcenities, but the window was up and she never even bothered to look back at me. I wondered how someone could be so heartless, so rude, so uncaring of another individual's needs. I know, I know, it's the line at STARBUCKS, it's not like I was waiting for a heart transplant or anything, but it's the PRINCIPLE. (I am, if you haven't guessed, a woman of principles). So I wondered, in my passive-aggressive way, how could I shame this rude woman into better behavior without a violent confrontation, when I had an epiphany.

RudeBitch.org (because Rudebitch.com & Rudebitch.net are taken).

I always carry my camera with me, without fail. In the future, I will take a little snapshot of people like HER, and post her rude little mug all over the Internet. Of course, I couldn't be sure that they would stumble across themselves, so I've designed a calling card, pure simplicity...

You've the newest member on RudeBitch.org.

Present this card to the offending party with a little smile & wave, and walk away knowing that you have possibly made the world a better place. Fast-lane karma.

Of course, my husband makes the observation, "Well, what happens when YOU end up on there?" Touché. That's fair. I drive like an ass, too. I guess if I end up on my own website, then I'll have to re-evaluate my behavior.

And that's all I ask for. Even I need to be put in my place occasionally.

Observation in a Parking Lot

2005-11-08T08:23:00.000-08:00

An older man, maybe in his fifties, balding, very tall and skinny. In tow is a short, round woman, easily 250 pounds, with short, choppy brown Texas hair. The two are smiling, holding hands and talking animatedly. Suddenly, the man flicks the woman in front of him, and they two break into a full-fledged country two step, twirling between cars and dancing around shopping carts. In the parking lot. At noon.

How cool is that?

My Weekend is Ruined

2005-11-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

My weekend is over on Sunday mornings, because that's when the dread sets in. Every Sunday, when I wake up, I wake up with the knowledge that it is Sunday, which means...

Tomorrow is Monday.

I've so come to dread going to work on Monday that it has begun to creep into my weekend. In the past, when this dread began to surface, I would start looking for another job. But I know now that it will not be enough anymore. I've been so spoiled at my present job, that there is absolutely no way I'd be happier somewhere else.

It's not a case of the grass is greener on the other side anymore; everywhere I look, the grass is dead.

What do you do when you're uninspired? What do you do when you've hit the plateau? When you can't go any further in your profession? I've peaked. Yellow page ads will never be any more creative. Customers will never change. Sales representatives will always be manipulative and selfish. I've peaked, and the only way to go now is down. It's time to work for myself.

I might as well jump. I suppose the thrill of hitting bottom will be better served by a base jump than rolling slowly back down the mountain, right? Maybe I'll get lucky and find a bungee cord...

Mushy-Brained

2005-11-04T11:17:00.000-08:00

I have to borrow my co-worker's description today. Have you ever driven somewhere, only to get there & realize you have ABSOLUTELY NO RECOLLECTION of the drive? That's how I dented my beautiful brand new truck. I was filling up with diesel (eek, $100), and I calmly and quietly attempted to pull away from the pump when SCREEECCCH, I realized I was dragging a concrete pole with me.

This is definately not typical behavior for me. I'm pretty alert most of the time; I drink enough Starbucks to keep an entire creative department dancing into the night... but this particular day, I skipped the morning mocha in my pursuit of better health. Well, screw that. This is not the result I envisioned.

Opinionated

2005-11-03T08:38:00.000-08:00

I truly enjoy conversations with people who have a strong opinion about something. Even more delightful than that, is when they can argue me into an intellectual corner until I can't possibly argue back. When they make a valid point that makes me simply stop and think about what it is that they're trying to get me to believe.

I am a classic fence-sitter. I can see both sides of almost any issue. That makes it awfully hard to believe in anything, or feel passionate about something. About the only thing I get seriously worked up about is the choice of typefaces in advertising, and even I know that it is all relative to the eye of the beholder. So, to be around someone who truly believes in something with the depth of their being fascinates me. How do people get like that? Why don't I?

I had an discussion (I call it that, the person I was talking to might call it an argument) with a die-hard Republican about the war in Iraq. Now, I don't go into these situations intending to upset anyone; I usually take a neutral stance and let everyone else around me fight about it. It's a good way to assess the argument and hear relative facts about both sides before I make a decision. However, there was no one else around during this particular conversation, so that left me to play devil's advocate.

"Do you think we should be there, or are you a stupid liberal, too?"
With a lead-in like that, where are you supposed to go? Where's a die-hard Democrat when I need one? I told this man that I had many Marine friends, and I would be very upset if they went over there and ended up dead, and I wondered aloud why it is so difficult for our troops to stabilize the situation over there. I honestly wonder that; I'm not there, I don't see what they see, I have no idea what they are facing. Apparently, this is the wrong thing to wonder aloud, because I received a thirty-minute tirade about how Saddam was going to kill us all with weapons of mass destruction.

How does this man get so fired up about these things when the only information he is getting is from the 10:00 Houston news? I know he hasn't researched the issue; he's just not smart enough to pick up a newspaper or figure out how to get on the Internet. I'm not saying his opinion is wrong or right, I'm just saying that it seems to be UNRESEARCHED.

I guess what I'm getting at is this: if you're going to try to ram your ideas down my throat, at least have a few facts to back you up, quote a few reputable sources, and make me think something besides "My God, not another blind idiot following the herd..."

Chances are, you'll just be wasting your breath anyway, because I still haven't found anything to believe in.

Where Did October Go?

2005-11-02T13:52:00.000-08:00

It is with great surprise that I looked up at the date on my calendar this morning and realized October passed without a second thought.

So begins the frantic November Oh-My-God-Christmas-Will-Be-Here-Tomorrow dance. Of course, in typical me fashion, I will continue to tell myself, "You still have time!" That is, until I'm standing in a crush of other last-minute shoppers sifting through the picked-over gift rejects (Mom would use a pair of fuzzy suede slippers, REALLY).

So now I face the same dilemma that I face ever year. What do I get my parents? They are so hard to shop for. Considering I forgot my father's birthday this year (I am truly a worthless daughter), I really don't want to drop the ball this time. But what do you get people who have everything they want? I could follow my husband's example, and buy him car parts, but I have no idea what parts he needs and I don't want to spoil the surprise by asking. And my mother, EEK. Last year they received a Dremel tool and a washing machine. Being the creative person that I am, you would think I could come up with something better than THAT.

I want October back.

BunnyHead

2005-11-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

Amendment to Yesterday's Post

2005-11-01T12:43:00.000-08:00

I feel the need, as a woman often does, to change my mind about yesterday's post. I do NOT need Prozac, or Zoloft, or Lithium. What I need is to stop taking things so personally.

One of the first comments my husband made when I first moved in was that he didn't like a cluttered house. It was an offhand remark, without much thought behind it, more of a passing observation, if you will. So, in an effort to make my new husband happy, I tried to keep the house decluttered.

As time passed, we would visit other people's homes and he would comment on how nice & uncluttered their homes were. Of course, I took this extremely personally.

"What the hell? Why do I bother cleaning up after you? If you didn't leave a trail, blah, blah, blah, blah...." And so goes the inner tirade, which I try to keep to myself because I, too, am messy and I never wanted to be a nagging wife. You know, one of THOSE wives. Occasionally it slips out, and I see his eyes glaze over in typical male-I'm-not-listening-anymore fashion. So I keep it quiet.

It does pay off, I think, in the long run. My husband thinks he has a cool wife (at least, that's what he tells me), even though he has a messy house. And a messy house never killed anyone, at least, not that I know of yet.

Bring On The Prozac

2005-10-31T14:12:00.000-08:00

I'm happy with my life. Seriously. But I'm just a bit neurotic about a few things, and I think if I medicated myself, then perhaps I wouldn't be so bitchy about them.

Take my husband's' socks, for example. He likes to take them off immediately after he sits down, and the socks remain there until I pick them up. Regardless of where he's sitting. Which means I find dirty socks under the coffee table, in front of the toilet, in bags close to the sofa, or, when he's trying to be funny, ON the kitchen table. They're just socks, nothing life threatening. Worst case scenario, my newly-crawling daughter buzzes by me with a dirty sock hanging from her mouth. She'll live. So why do socks drive me so crazy?

And the piles. Endless piles of stuff strew from my back door to the bedroom. He likes to empty his pockets upon entering a room, and the little piles all over the house make it look like the entire house is drowning under little piles of change, reciepts, and car knick-knacks.

Another example... my cubicle neighbor calls and talks to her customers. Why does this bother me so much? Is it because it makes her look like a better designer than me? Is it because she CARES about what her customers think? Why do I care anyway?

I truly have nothing in life to complain about. I have a very loving (albeit messy, but I am too), loyal and absolutely wonderful husband, a beautiful child, and every material thing in life I ever needed. A beautiful house. Great cars. Fun job. So what is the deal?

Is it time for the happy pills when you start to have to FIND stuff to bitch about?

Pinkie

2005-10-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

A.D.D. is Contagious

2005-10-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

I used to be an incredibly focused person. Used to be. Enter Chip, my husband.

Chip has what I like to call The Idea of The Day (IOTD). Sometimes it's drastic ("Let's move!"), sometimes it's not (no example comes to mind, here.) He is constantly dreaming up new & exciting projects. The list is almost as long as the list of cars he has owned since we've been together. Some of these IOTD's could be amazing business propositions. Some of them could create one-of-a-kind collectibles that might catapult him into a new realm of fame never before encountered. Almost all of them are expensive in either a financial or emotional way.

There was a time when these IOTD's would send me into mini panic attacks. I've always been a stay-in-on-place kind of girl, and the very few times I tried to step out of my happy little box, things ended traumatically. Then, as years passed and these IOTD's slowly faded into ADD oblivion, I came to realize if I didn't like what he proposed, all I have to do is keep my mouth shut & wait. Two days later, it's gone. Completely. Never existed.

You see, Chip is my first experience with adult ADD. He hasn't been officially diagnosed, but we both know he has it. It's a running joke between us; he needs to go to the doctor but he keeps forgetting. The fact of the matter is, I wouldn't change it for the world. I love our quirky, crazy life. If he was medicated, it would supress all the characteristics that I love about him. Now, that being said, I've discovered a horrible side effect of ADD.

It's contagious.

Recently, I've begun to notice I have too many ideas. I'm going to do this, I'm going to do that, but I forgot what it is I was supposed to be doing. Case in point: this website. ADD perfectly illustrated. Where is it going? What is the focus? WHAT THE HELL DOES SHE DO? Is she a designer? A photographer? A video editor? A webmaster? A sculptor? I can't answer that. I know that if I could find my focus again, I could be very successfully self-employed. But if I medicate myself to cure my newly-aquired ADD, I might lose the very creativity that drives me to pursue all of these interests.

Focus, focus... where the hell was I going with this?

Fashion Victim

2005-10-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

I am a walking fashion mess, and I am perfectly okay with that. I can't justify spenging hundreds of dollars on clothes that I will only wear for a season. (I'd much rather spend that money on something functional, like a kiln!) So I often recycle clothes for years, wearing them until I can't patch the holes anymore.

I have to say, there is a great deal of art influencing fashion, and I appreciate that. I appreciate the Mona Lisa also, but I can't justify buying it, hanging it on my wall, and staring at it everyday. Just like fashion, I'll get tired of looking at it, and it will become just another THING in my house that takes up space and is completely taken for granted. It's like eating Cheerios everyday. I hate Cheerios.

Houston fashion is something completely unlike anything else I've ever experienced. Women here like sparkly, glittery things. Perfectly coifed Japanese-straightened platinum hair and razor sharp French manicured claws. I've often heard the mumbles & grumbles as I walk by in my cargo shorts & huge frumpy T-shirts. The little snickers and insults that women are so adept at. At 5'11", all it takes is a mere glance in their petite direction to shut them up. But I don't begrudge them their Gucci and Prada. I admire their taste. Beautiful things for beautiful people.

I'm just not a sparkly, glittery kind of girl anymore. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate it. I just choose not to participate.

If You're Ugly, Don't Advertise It

2005-10-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

Quite often I come across instructions to "include picture in ad." I then turn the page to find Joe Blow's picture taken at high noon with every wrinkle, blemish, and horrible imperfection prominently displayed in the most hideous photographs known to man.

I'm not ugly, per se, but I'm no beauty queen, and I'm okay with that. I would NEVER want my picture in my advertising because it is SO true; a picture speaks a thousand words. People would look into my beady little eyes and immediate think, "She looks condescending. I don't think I'll call her." It amazes me that so many people in life are in complete denial. What is the purpose of putting your photo in your advertising? Do you think it will jog someone's memory?

"Oh yeah, I remember that face! I think I'll call that guy to fix my air conditioner!"

Seriously, why??? If you need fifteen minutes of fame, run down to your local bar and sing karaoke or something. At least that won't defer people from giving you business (unless you're a really bad singer). Photographs serve absolutely no purpose other than feeding your ego and wasting valuable white space. Class is not defined by your Glamour Shot. Even if you were blessed with a beautiful face, advertise your BUSINESS, not yourself. Your graphic artist will thank you for it.

Roar!

2005-10-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

Vocabulary Optional

2005-10-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

After plowing through hundreds of crappy ads, a graphic designer starts to lose use of their vocabulary skills. It's a past-time of my department to inadvertently make up our own language. One girl, Jennifer, is rather adept at this skill. Luckily, she has a great since of humor about it. Some of my personal favorites: mushy-brained (tired at the end of the day), paginitation (pagination), and my absolute favorite; the spelling of the word wreath (REEF).

She's British. It's not her fault.

I've decided to start documenting our language faux-pas here. One struck me as particularly humorous this morning. This one came from another artist, but it's still worthy of sharing.

"While returning grief-strucken from one funeral, the woman found out her other brother was dead, too."

I'm grief-strucken that the English language has to endure such brutality... :)

A Jolly Time of Year

2005-10-25T08:37:00.000-07:00

I hate Christmas. Before you recoil in terror and label me a Grinch... let me make my point.

First, from a graphics standpoint, it is a logistical nightmare. Red & green are NOT meant to go together. You can argue the color wheel theory to me 'til your blue in the face, but you will never convince me that the Xmas color scheme is beautiful.
I actually like the "blue" Christmas thing, but you have to live in my household to understand that a single color scheme will NEVER happen...(Christmas tree stories for another day...)

But people are generally MEANER around Christmas. Everyone is hassled because they actually have to go out and shop. Then they stress out because they're short on cash. All of this manifests into vicious cases of road rage (guilty), which in turn makes 90% of adults grumpy, mean & spiteful. Merry Freakin' Christmas.

I'm truly hoping that the joy on my daughter's face will redeem this lost holiday for me. I don't expect much this year beyond drool and a smile (she thinks the dog is the coolest thing in the world). But I want to be transported back to a time when Christmas was fun & happy for somebody besides the credit card companies...

Flash Shocked

2005-10-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

In my profession, a sleek website is absolutely essential. So I'm browsing the web for resources, and I am completely flabbergasted at the prices of Flash elements. If you want sound on your website, (decent sound), it's going to cost you. So I, being the ultimate cheapskate and digital Martha Stewart, decided to start my own sound foundry. The site will be called the DJ Skye Project, and it will include FREE downloadable Flash loops. I understand there are many people out there trying to make a buck on the Web, but is it truly necessary to charge $200 for a collection of 50 sound loops? And people wonder why Limewire is so damned popular...

So, if you're a budding Flash sound artist and you want to get your name out there, I invite you to drop me a line and I will feature you on my site. You know as soon as you put the words "FREE download," there's gonna be some traffic...

Creativity is the Mother of Destruction

2005-10-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

Today is my boss's 50th birthday. In a not-so-clever attempt to protect his personal items, he locked his office door and removed part of the locking mechanism is a feeble attempt to keep the graphics department from defacing everything.

Silly man. Don't you know graphic designers are theives & liars?

"Of course we wouldn't do anything to your office, sir..."

Three hundred balloons, 3 boxes of Hefty bags, and four bags of glitter later...voilá! A virtual birthday masterpiece. We were going for the ball-pen effect, and I'm proud to say as he waded knee-deep in black balloons, I think we succeeded.

Never, never, never trust any department that has the word "creative" in it.

My Kewpie

2005-10-20T14:53:00.000-07:00

30 Will Get You Too, My Pretty...

2005-10-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

My mother used to preach at me constantly as I stuffed Star Crunch after Twinkie after Swiss Roll into my mouth...
"You'd better enjoy that, because you're not going to be able to eat like that when you're thirty."
Pish. What does she know? I thought to myself. Silly old woman. She also said someday I'd turn into HER.

Fast forward 15 years. Hello 30. I am now sitting here eating 12-grain toast with imitation sans-trans-fat-psuedo butter flavoring, trying to chug down yet another bottle of water while I nod off from getting up before dawn to run until my shins are screaming in agony. And yet, despite this grueling schedule, I still cannot manage to shed the final 20 pounds of lard from my ever-spreading ass since having my child in March.

It hardly seems fair. I watch the beautiful people float by and think in a dirty, evil little voice within my head, "Ha ha, lets see if you can stuff your ass in those pants in another 10 years, you little floozy." Granted, I'm sure ten years ago someone was thinking the exact same thing about me as I strolled by, my perky little ass hanging out of my signature sundresses, made all the more stunning by the platforms I loved to wear because 5'11" naturally just wasn't high enough to look down my nose at people. Hmmm. Young and blissfully stupid. If I went back, of COURSE I'd do it again. You only look that way for a little while, unless you're some freak of nature who was blessed with an abnormally hyper metabolism.

(Sigh). Of course it's jealousy. Age is a brutal thing. There's no such thing as aging gracefully, well, unless you're not a self-absorbed narcissist. Show me one woman who's happy with her aging process and I will show you a woman who is obviously taking anti-depressants.

Enjoy it while you have it, girls. 30 is a brutal, bloodthirsty, heartless, merciless monster who will crawl into your life and try to steal everything that makes life worth living. Indulgence, sleep and beauty, now distant memories, nothing more than ingredients in that birthday cake that goes straight to your thighs without passing go...

Psuedo-Butter-flavored toast is now your life-long friend.

Corporate Coffee Whore

2005-10-14T13:47:00.000-07:00

I sold out. I am ashamed to admit it, but I gave in to temptation.

There was once a graphic designer who decided to poke fun at a corporate coffee giant by altering their logo and creating a satirical graphic novel about said nameless corporate coffee conglomerate. Now, you would think this company, who is largely supported by the artsy designer types, would not take itself so seriously and appreciate that this designer decided to poke fun at them. After all, the designer was a devoted customer. Most of us are. Coffee and the graphic artist are in inseparable pair, a symbiotic relationship that was born shortly after the conception of the first laptop.

The corporate coffee giant swiftly hit the tiny designer with a copyright lawsuit. It seams that this company is EXTREMELY protective of their logo. So much so, that they would stop at no lengths to crush the tiny designer, despite his years of loyal patronage. I was extremely offended. Without us, their sales would likely plummet! After all, it is the uber-trendy, dark-haired, pale-skinned, bespectacled cappaccino-sipping designer that fueled the great Western coffee rush of the 90's. How dare they bite the hand that so lovingly fed their corporate greed for years?

I joined the anti-corporate coffee movement. I sought my fix in the tiny coffee shops of New Orleans, choosing to donate to the needy instead of feeding the evil giant. A virtual Robin Hood of coffee I became, proud to stand up for what I believed in. But then...it began to happen.

The giant proceeded with it's plan for global domination, and everywhere I looked, on every corner, there stood another store, it's warm earthtones and exotic smells beckoning to me at every turn. Until one day, guilty, I sneaked in the front door and broke my internal vow. Hypocrite. Sell Out. Weak-minded turncoat. Treason.

But it was the best white chocolate mocha ever.

The Pedal On the Right Is The Gas

2005-10-13T02:00:00.000-07:00

What ever happened to the fast lane? When did it become home to every law-abiding blue-hair and inattentive cell phone user intent on making the rest of us slow down?

I am the reason there is road rage. I pass on the right, without patience & without fail. If you are going slower than I am, I do not have time for you to figure out there is a great big bright yellow truck in your rearview mirror before you decide to tell whoever you are talking to on your cell phone that you need to move over because some idiot is about to run over you. That idiot is me, and nine times out of ten I am late for something.

I know what you're thinking; if you're in such a freaking hurry, then leave earlier. Touché. However, if you were not obstructing the FAST lane, then I wouldn't have to leave earlier, now would I?

Yes, I am an unsafe driver. Yes, I drive like a maniac, an ass, a jerk, & whatever else you want to call me. Now, kindly remember that if you see me and move quickly and quietly to the right, because you never know which day it will be when I snap and decide to use your vehicle as a speed bump.

My friends are missing

2005-10-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

Tamara N. & Meghan L.; if you're reading this, send me an email RIGHT NOW! I'm worried about you girls!

Customer Service Sucks

2005-10-06T10:41:00.000-07:00

And why wouldn't it? Have you seen what people have to endure from their customers these days?

Case in point: I'm in line at a popular craft store, and a young girl is frantically trying to check out the woman ahead of me as people stack up behind me. The woman is arguing about every item, swearing that the items are on sale. The girl assures her that the UPC codes are determined by the computer; if the item is on sale, it will automatically apply the discount.

Now, here's where it gets interesting. Instead of listening to the poor cashier, the loudmouth chooses to hold up the line and argue in an even louder tone. "I'm in here all the time! How dare you talk to me like that?" (I can bear witness, the girl was extreme cordial in her explanation, without a hint of condescension. I'm not sure I could have done the same...) When this refused to get a rise from the cashier, the customer took to doling out personal insults. "How does an idiot like you get a job as a cashier? Do you even know how to count?"

Meanwhile, the large line behind me is starting to get restless. But to my utter surprise, they are also angry at the cashier. "Why doesn't she just ring up the discount?" Why doesn't she, indeed? Perhaps because they have STUPID-PROOFED these point-of-sale cash registers. A monkey could run them. Just scan & put it in the bag. Until you encounter an individual such as the angry, self-righteous, I-am-entitled-to-a-discount-because-I yell lady. Or perhaps because we all pay inflated prices because of women like this, because they drive up the cost of inventory to compensate for the money the store isn't making by giving things away. Or maybe it's just the PRINCIPLE. I, too, and starting to get highly annoyed, but not quite for the same reason.

In the end, a manager comes. The cashier is nearly in tears. The manager backs down, keys in his magic manager code, and the lady gets her discount. Ever ungrateful, she has to mumble under her breath as she is stuffing her reciept into her bag. I step up to the cashier with a smile, but she doesn't make eye contact, choosing instead to focus all of her attention on my products. I lean forward with a non-confidential whisper; "Don't you just HATE bitchy people? She's probably got a miserable home life." I look directly into the eyes of the bitch, whose jaw is dropped in disbelief, then stand to my full 6'1" height (with heels on). Funny, she didn't have anything else to say after that. The cashier cracked the tiniest smile that she could get away with, but her eyes said volumes.

Having been in the service industry for 8 years, I can totally understand why people stop caring about their jobs. Everyone doesn't start out as a dull-eyed, slumped-over, monotone servant to the masses. They're driven to it by micro-managing, beligerent customers, and general lack of niceness in the world today.

My favorite customer service story takes me back to my table-waiting days at a very popular country restaurant. It was a crowded Sunday afternoon, and a good friend of mine, Kevin, was waiting on seven of the dumbest, back-woods, mullet-sporting rednecks I've ever encountered. Kevin was a six foot tall albino that also happened to be a flaming homosexual. He endured the taunts and barbs thrown at him with the true grace that only a homosexual man can possess, but was eventually driven to his breaking point when one of the rednecks proclaimed loud enough for the entire dining room to hear:

"I ain't eatin no food brought to me by a s@#$-packing faggot."

Kevin stood in front of the redneck with a tray full of nine tall glasses of iced tea. "You're right," he answered with dignity. "You won't have anything brought to you by this faggot because I JUST QUIT." And he dumped the entire tray of iced tea in the rednecks lap and walked calmly out the front door past all of our stunned faces.

Ha Ha! You go, girl!

Karma

2005-10-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

My co-worker is from Pakistan, and she believes in karma. What goes around will come around. Be good and good things will happen to you. Be bad, and, well, you know.

I bring this up because I talk a lot about my grandmother's home, or what's left of it, here. Until I was 20, I thought the world of this woman. I would spend every Friday night at her home, the highlight of the evening was a standing date with Bo & Luke Duke. (Of course, I had to get through the Incredible Hulk first, and I'd always bury my eyes in the blanket at the slightest hint of green.) But my parents shielded me from the ugliness of the alcoholism that permeated through our family, so much so that I didn't truly realize the depth of the nastiness it spawns until I began to plan my first wedding.

I have two younger cousins, a year apart. One is blood related, one is the child of a previous marriage. I asked the non-blood related cousin to stand as a bridesmaid because she was the one I saw the most. (The other girl was often with her mother, caught in the turmoil of a particularly nasty divorce, so I didn't get to spend much time with her.) This resulted in me being, quite literally, disowned. Without discussion, without rhyme or reason. My last one-sided discussion with my aunt and grandmother involved them saying "We won't be at your wedding." And that was it. My father was so hurt, he stopped speaking to them. And it stayed this way for eight long years. A family ripped apart by my decision to choose a bridesmaid. It made no sense to me. I struggled to understand what I'd done to be so completely rejected by these women I had idolized my entire childhood. My father's explanation was quite simple.

"They've always been that way."

Fast forward to March, 2005. My beautiful daughter is born, and my entire perspective on life is completely changed. I received a baby gift from my estranged aunt. An olive branch. The closest I will ever recieve to an apology. Since I now understand the value of family, I want to mend the rift that has hurt me for so long. But I am cautious. I am sensitive. I am a cynic. Can people change? I don't think so. But we can approach them with caution, and not let them get into a position where they can completely destroy your ideals again. I don't want to poison my daughter with stories of how mean her grandmother & great-aunt were to me. I want her to know how much I enjoyed my childhood. I want to share my good times with her. I want to shield her from the kind of pain I endured when my family unexplicably abandoned me.

A baby brings a family together. A hurricane REALLY brings your family together.

My grandmother & aunt are fortunate enough to have found a house to rent, ironically, extremely close to my father. He checks on them occasionally. He helped survey their property. They have nothing in terms of belongings. During my last visit, I walked through my aunt's house, the stench of mold and mud overpowering. I had an eerie feeling, because I thought I'd never set foot in that house again. And there, on the mantle, is the only picture salvaged from the 15-foot wall of water with absolutely no damage. It's a picture of my grandmother, my aunt, me, and the blood cousin.

I try to live a good life. I try to be a good person. Now I will definately try harder.

Under Penalty of Death

2005-10-05T12:29:00.000-07:00

Oh God, so help me, if I have to build another ad where the customer's logo is created out of the font Papyrus or Brush Script, I swear I will lose all fragile grips on my sanity and run through the streets screaming in frustration. There are HUNDREDS of THOUSANDS of typefaces out there; why not be a little more creative? If you're a graphic designer, and you use either of these fonts willingly, (that is, of your own free will without force or persuasion or threat to cancel an account that you require for this month's rent), PLEASE re-evaluate your job title, because you are NOT WORTHY. I will happily eat this post if anyone can find me an example where one of these two fonts is used in a current and classy way. ARRGGGHHH.

More Pictures from Pearlington

2005-10-05T11:42:00.000-07:00

This photographer is absolutely amazing. His photographs say what I could not describe. He's traveling between New Orleans & Pearlington, taking pictures and telling the stories of the victims. Be warned; some pictures are not for the faint of heart.

http://operationeden.blogspot.com

Reports From Pearlington

2005-10-04T07:55:00.000-07:00

A reporter for The Aspen Times is in Pearlington writing stories for the newspaper. I find it extremely interesting that the resort town of Aspen is interested in the tiny, little hole-in-the-wall city of Pearlington, but I am extremely grateful. Go to http://www.aspentimes.com and search for Pearlington. Scott Condon is the reporter.

A Few Thoughts on Looting

2005-10-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

I work with a woman who was appalled by the looting that went on in New Orleans during Katrina. She swept about the office in a fit of rage, blathering about how awful looters were and how they deserved to be shot. Oh! The horror! Oh! The NERVE of those people, how DARE they take advantage of a desparate situation by taking things that did not belong to them and that they weren't entitled to!

Fast forward three weeks, with Hurricane Rita bearing down on Houston. In the aftermath, many Houston counties were declared disaster areas, entitling the residents to FEMA and Red Cross aid. The only damage this woman suffered was a power outage and a few downed trees. She recently blew through the office bragging about how much money she received from FEMA. Meanwhile, people like my grandmother who have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING left, receive the same amount in disaster aid. The television is constantly flashing pictures of people who have NO homes, NO clothes, NO belongings.

So, who's worse?
If you're going to judge, you'd better prepare to be judged yourself.

Goodbye childhood

2005-10-01T13:57:00.000-07:00

I visited my old hometown a couple of weeks ago. Pearlington, Mississippi, for those of you who aren't familiar with it, is a tiny community nestled on the Pearl River right on the border of Mississippi and Louisiana. That's also the same path that Hurricane Katrina decided to follow. As I drove slack-jawed through what was left of my childhood, it didn't dawn on me that I only saw three structures still standing. My grandmother's home was leveled to the ground, her belongings scattered for miles. Admist the rubble sat a brand new tiller, it's shiny red paint defiantly taunting the skies. A fence sat two feet up in a nearby tree, the familiar vent of my grandmother's roof staring up like the eye of a battered corpse. The true reality hits you like a brick when you step out of the car... the stench of rotting sealife and saltwater rising from the thick layer of river mud that covers the ground. As I looked around, I struggled to imagine life as it was when I was seven, returning to my grandmother's house after Sunday morning church. But the church is gone. Someone retrieved the statue of the Virgin Mary and placed it on the concrete steps that used to lead into the small wooden church.

Down the road, a visit to my aunt's house brought more emotions to the surface. The house still remained, up inside, the stench of mold & mildew are overpowering. The water line left it's mark about two inches below the roof. Her refrigerator hangs precariously through the ceiling, washed into the beams by the rising water and left to hang as the water receded. It was surreal. Those who say that it resembles a bomb going off are right. There are no words to describe the hopelessness that you encountered while looking around.

All that remains of my old home is the front porch, where I remember so many good times. My parents decorating it for Halloween. Staring out the window of their bedroom at the Christmas lights. Riding my first bicycle up and down the sidewalk. All that remains of the beautiful yard my mother cultivated for years is the large oak tree, it's leaves washed away. I always assumed that someday I would be able to drive past the house and show my daughter, "This is where Mommy grew up." It was a harsh reminder that nothing in life is permanent, and we truly need to cherish what we have while we still have it. I know that's a big cliché, but tell that to my uncle who was camped out in my aunt's yard, who hadn't showered in days and now lives in a tent eating MRE's. I felt guilty returning to my nice, air-conditioned home in Houston.