Up With People (Or Not)

In my iPod right now: "Falling Slowly" - performed by American Idol contestant Kris Allen (I know - sucker! (but seriously, it's awesome))

I'm sad to say that my knowledge of celebrity gossip is slipping considerably. I mean, sure, while I'm in the checkout line, I'm as fixated on the tabloids as anyone, but I no longer subscribe to US Weekly, and I'm not as good about checking all of those fantastic celebrity buzz blogs as I used to be. I gave myself a pass for awhile based on my brief stint as a paparazzo last summer (a story for another day -I helped contribute to the machine in a pretty insignificant way), but it's getting a little ridiculous. It took me way too long, for example, to learn that Lindsay Lohan and her girlfriend Sam were broken up. Unacceptable. Really. I'm embarrassed.

Well, I recently had a chance to get reacquainted with the old reliable celebrity source People Magazine. Or so I thought. I had a series of dentist appointments to tackle my unfortunate abscess tooth condition, and I was confident that the waiting room would offer a plethora of reading options, including the aforementioned People Magazine and perhaps a few issues of Highlights for Children. I mean, that's the only good thing about the dentist, right? The waiting room reading material. (Actually, that's not entirely true. I like the lead apron too, but that's only because I'm kind of a freak.)

When I am wrong, I am so wrong. This dentist office (while standard Del Rio super friendly) offered only "DTV" (which stands not for "Dance T.V." from the highly underrated "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" starring a young Sarah Jessica Parker, but rather, "Dental T.V.) and various dental industry magazines. Really? I kind of thought that the best way to help patients relax in "the chair" is to help them forget they're at the dentist. A feature on gingivitis isn't going to make that happen.

I think I might mention this when I return for my cleaning in June. As I recall, my usually literary snob mom (and I mean that with the utmost admiration) experienced something similar many years ago. Unlike this case, however, the dentist had once offered all of the waiting room greats (People, Sports Illustrated, you name it) but one day decided to cancel them all and replace them with random promotional magazines that had obviously been sent to the office for free. My mom was furious that her People was not there waiting for her, and the poor receptionist got an earful. I'm pretty sure they ended up just sucking it up and forking over the negligible $400/year or whatever they previously spent and renewing their subscriptions.

Trust me. It's worth it.

The Good Things

Playing in my iPod right now: "Not As We" - Alanis Morissette

I sometimes feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time complaining about my new town of Del Rio, Texas. A lot of things in this town are funny - because you have to look at them that way to survive. For instance, last month, my friend Becky and I passed the marquee in front of what can only be loosely referred to as the "mall," to be greeted with the message "Valentines Feb 14 Renew UR Vows 2 PM By Ross." Understandably, we doubled over in laughter, and I even insisted on getting a bit closer (from the parking lot) so I could snap a picture. I mean, really - what could be more romantic than pledging yourself all over again to the person you love in front of a discount store? Heck, it could be like the end of that movie "Where the Heart Is,"where Natalie Portman ties the knot in Walmart (also possible in Del Rio).

But there are some legitimately good things about being in a town this small and non-lively. Let's start with the Social Security Administration office. For those of you who know me, you may know that it took me over two years to legally change my last name to my husband's. I put it off for many reasons, the first being that we lived separately for some time, and I had a house and all of my utility bills in my name. A second reason was that I had an established career (other than writing), and I was afraid people wouldn't be able to find the new me. Becoming pregnant was the impetus for my decision to finally make this name change happen (it just seemed to make sense). The funny thing about this approach is that, now when I tell people I recently changed my last name, and they can see the obvious growth under my shirt, I fear their impression is that I had a shotgun wedding (not that there's anything wrong with that . . .). I digress.

Anyway, having heard horror stories about the nuisance of changing a last name, upon the advice of Becky, I sucked it up and took all of my documents into the Social Security Administration office into my new town. So after all of that dread, how long did it take me to officially change my name? Less than ten minutes, folks. Other than some creepy guy lurking in the corner of the waiting room, I was the only one in there. You can't beat that.

Ditto for updating my license plates and getting a new driver's license. Did you know that in Texas, you have to go to two different government buildings for this? That right there might have caused me to rethink my plans to change residency and hang onto the Old Dominion. But in Del Rio, not a problem. Getting my driver's license was such a speedy process, in fact, that I could have forgotten a few identification documents, driven home to retrieve them, and still been out of there in twenty-five minutes. As it happened, it only took fifteen (there was one person in front of me - a sweet old lady who was just getting an identification card and apparently did not speak a lick of English).

And finally, I have to admit that the people, for the most part, are quite nice. Becky and I signed up for an oil painting class at the Firehouse art center downtown Del Rio. We thought it would be fun to have a project and some kind of weekly extracurricular routine. After a check debacle at Chili's, we were a bit late for the first class, but when we arrived for the second and began to take our places around the table, one of the women pulled out the one folding chair with a small amount of padding and offered it to me, explaining that it was not much but that it might help. I was touched by the kind gesture. She didn't even know me.

Note: Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the law enforcement officers who have twice pulled me over in this town for speeding. Well, okay - one let me off with a warning, but the second (whose name I remember but will not repeat here) was apparently unimpressed by my "condition" and gave me a ticket for going 58 in a 40 mph zone. Yes, I may have been going slightly over the speed limit, but I could see the 50 mph speed limit sign when I started to accelerate. So we're basically talking 8 miles over. Where I'm from, if you're only going 8 miles over the speed limit, you become roadkill. Sadly, I will have to retire my lead foot from now on. Really - it's a lot more difficult than you might think.

Closing Time

In my iPod right now: Fade Into You by Mazzy Star

A few weeks ago, the Waldenbooks in the Plaza Del Sol "Mall" in Del Rio, Texas shut its doors for good. In truth, it was a crummy bookstore that appeared to be run by a bunch of teenagers who felt it more important to gab and text on their cell phones than to ring up a customer's purchase. The place was in total disarray most of the time, clearly demonstrating where the workers' priorities were. It was really a sad leftover from the 80's, when B. Dalton's and Waldenbooks ruled the world (I know this because together they were responsible for enabling my severe "Sweet Valley High" habit.) It gave me none of those great feelings and imaginary conversations that bookstores seem to promote for me (such as "See how smart and interesting I am? I like to browse history books."). This Waldenbooks had no coffee shop, no music section, no greeting card/gift collection. But it did have one thing going for it: it was the only game in town. When I saw what was happening, why it was having a big "40% off everything sale," I was too sad to even peruse the great bargains. Instead, I went to my car and cried.

The thing is: seeing any store or restaurant going out of business has always made me melancholy. For some people, I guess it's nice to take advantage of the sales, but I can't see past the fact that someone's project, maybe even someone's dream, has died. It's why I have trouble watching "You've Got Mail." I'm the one who needs the tissues when Meg Ryan closes her mother's children's bookstore. It's positively heartbreaking. I guess we're supposed to be happy that Tom Hanks and the big Fox Books rescues her, but it's still hard to watch. I'm not even saying that I wouldn't have patronized Fox Books (I did, after all, pay $25 annually to be a Barnes and Noble "member"). But I still like to support the mom and pop shops if I can, even if they're more expensive. It's worth it; supporting the dream is worth it.

On a more personal level, I can't help but be disturbed that my little town can't keep a bookstore in business. I'm an aspiring novelist, after all. And my success depends on readers. I am all for being that sellout I talked about in my last post. I know times are tough, and almost every industry is suffering, but this is my plea to you:

Please Keep Supporting the Publishing Industry.

You know that feeling you get when you've read a really great book: that feeling that you've escaped to another world. It's a feeling that immerses you, that makes your imagination soar - much more than a two hour movie ever could.

Cherish it.

The Sellout

In my iPod right now: “Everyday is Like Sunday” by Morrissey

Is it just me, or does it suddenly seem like cupcakes are everywhere? Granted, cupcakes are no strangers to mainstream society. They were the perfect little treat for kids to bring in to elementary school on their birthdays. They were a staple of bake sales and cake walks. In my elementary school in Michigan, there were even random cupcake weeks, where we could purchase a homemade cupcake for a quarter to raise money for some cause (this was also a convenient way for my mom to dispense with some of that annoying Canadian change you must inevitably deal with as a Michigander). But cupcakes are now out of control! I saw no less than five bookstore displays this Christmas of cupcake-themed recipe books. I keep seeing cupcake designs on birthday cards and baby clothes.

Sure, it’s nice to know that cupcakes aren’t going anywhere, but I am a little bittersweet. I had this naive notion that cupcakes were kind of my special thing. Turns out they’re everyone’s.

I guess it’s kind of like music. In the early 90’s, I was a big fan of so-called “alternative” music. From Concrete Blonde, to Echo and the Bunnymen, to James. Whatever they were selling, I was buying. But then something happened: alternative became mainstream. Suddenly people were complaining about bands like Pearl Jam and R.E.M. “selling out.” How dare they expand their fan base? Shame on them for making money doing something they love!

Ridiculous, if you think about it. Why shouldn’t bands and cupcakes be successful? If I’m truly a fan, shouldn’t I want what’s best for them? And, of course, without mainstream success, we’d never get to have those bragging rights – those “I knew them way back when” stories.

Side note: The only person interested in these stories is the person telling them. The rest of us couldn’t care less about that person who saw Live at some general admission concert at Wabash College in the Spring of 1993, right before Throwing Copper hit it big. (Oh wait – that person was me.)

But I still can’t get used to hearing “Everyday is Like Sunday” in NFL commercials...

Back in Blog

In my iPod right now: "These Photographs" by Joshua Radin
Competing in my head: "Back in Black" by AC/DC (of course!)

It's New Year's Resolution time, right? Well, I'm not making any. Except that I will try to blog more. I think I said this last year too. Look how that turned out .... In any case, I've seen other blogs that list what the writer is listening to - and I love that idea. I love music. This way, I always get to share without a separate "I Recommend" post. And perhaps the music will give me blogging ideas. Perhaps??

My husband and I just got back from our holiday trip to Denver to visit his mom. And, as luck would have it, three of my sorority sisters (all from my class) live there - and they were ALL around to meet and catch up for awhile. It's always fun to rehash the college stories. My friend Betsy, in particular, reminded me of a poem I wrote in her honor - describing a beer goggled incident in which she stole some poor caterer's sandwich while he was innocently roasting a hog on a spit in the backyard of some fraternity house. Poor guy. But it was damn funny.

Well, I got home and managed to find my journal from the years 1992 - 1996 (yes, I recognize that this ages me - and no, I don't like it one bit). One hundred and twenty-six poems and "thoughts," folks! Most of them Smiths/Morrissey/Cure - inspired garbage (not that The Smiths or The Cure churn out garbage at all, but the sad outlook they seemed to bring out in me was not becoming). However, a few of them weren't bad, if I do say so myself. One entry, in particular, made me laugh. And since I have nothing else to blog about, I am repeating it here, 16 years later (oh God, I'm old):

Untitled:

I think I know why my parents didn't spoil me when I was a child. I wanted all of these toys, and sometimes when I got them, they weren't as neat as the commercials said, and then I never played with them and wouldn't let my friends either. But I liked my Barbie a lot because I only had one - the other ones I had that kind of looked like Barbie were the hollow drugstore kind. But if I had been given as many Barbies as I'd wanted, I probably would have been careless with them, like how my one friend Christine was, because she had so many Barbies and threw them all in a big white bucket with no clothes on. I feel good, too, because deep down I know that my Barbie had it better. It's a good thing I wasn't spoiled like Christine, because if I had been, I'd probably treat people like she treated her Barbies.

"The Suite"

While there are plenty of contrary opinions out there around the world, as an American, I feel that I have many reasons to be proud of this country. Of course it's not perfect; I'd even go so far as to guess that no country is. Part of what makes a country great is the refusal to accept complacency - to strive for better. One of the areas in which I think that the U.S. generally gets it right is its laws regarding access for the disabled. Ramps, elevators, parking spaces . . . we've got them. As we should.

But American women don't seem to agree about the proper etiquette concerning one of our accommodations for the disabled, a little place my friend Colleen likes to call "The Suite." The Suite is your standard disabled-friendly bathroom stall, the one that is extra roomy, has a bar along the wall, and sometimes even has its own private sink (the real score). How do I know about all of these features? Because I have visited the Suite many times. (I have even visited the Johnny-on-the-Spot Suite, which is certainly not ideal, but still better than the alternative.)

Sometimes, however, I hear other women talk about the Suite like it's off-limits to the fully-abled - at all times. Do they really believe this? And if so, is it true? Maybe I am a bad person for taking advantage of the extra benefits the Suite has to offer. But then, I am not sure I am in the wrong here. If there were someone with a disability standing behind me in line for the restroom and the Suite suddenly became available, of course, OF COURSE, I'd allow said person to move in front of me and use the Suite. But in general, it's not like a parking space. I'm not planning to occupy the Suite all day. And sometimes, the Suite is the only one available.

When you've gotta go, you've gotta go.

Fooling Ourselves

Hey everyone! It's officially turkey day on the East Coast (here in Del Rio, we're still shy approximately five minutes)! I could blog about how I spent all day making pies, but I won't. It was pretty anticlimactic (although, I confess that I did have a little taste of my friend Brenda's famous pumpkin bars just to make sure I didn't screw them up (I didn't - and yum!)). Instead, I thought of the perfect blog topic the other night: why do we fool ourselves?

I'm sure we're all guilty of the occasional white lie every now and then. (Frankly, I don't think I could be friends with someone who didn't engage in this practice once in awhile. It's just human nature and a useful resource for sparing feelings.) But what I really don't get is when we try to trick ourselves into believing something. Don't we know ourselves well enough by this point in life? How could we fall for such a thing?

A simple example of this is my constant need to rationalize what I eat. Oh, food regrets - those are the worst. So, in an effort to assuage the guilt I feel after gorging on some snack or sweet, I'll often try to convince myself that I didn't have a full serving or that it didn't have any calories as the package says because it's Sunday or something. Do I buy these ridiculous excuses? No, not really. But I continue to do it, time and time again.

The ultimate attempt to fool myself, though, is when I insist that I am not, I am NOT falling asleep. Here's what I mean: Often, when I'm snuggled up on the couch at night watching the boob tube, I'll start to doze off. But I'm not willing to throw in the towel yet. Oh no. I will finish, MUST finish whatever pointless thing I'm watching. So here's my genius plan: I will simply rest my eyes for a little while, but not to worry - I will still be able to follow the story, sporting event, what-have-you, by LISTENING.

Has this strategy ever worked? Nope. Not even once. Not when my brother and I stayed up late while we were in high school watching "Zapped Again" (which Scott Baio was evidently too good for) on one of the cheap local cable channels. Not during my first three attempts at getting all of the way through the movie "Fletch" (great movie, but it was like some kind of weird curse - sometime after Fletch told them to "put it on the Underhill's tab," the sandman would pay me a visit). Not when I watched my Ti-Fauxed episode of "Samantha Who?" from the other night. (I would start the episode, fall asleep about five minutes in, wake up at some point after the credits and, INCREDIBLY, try to get through it again - with the same master plan.)

The point? I'm not fooling anyone. But you can't blame me for trying.