About as Similar as Danny DeVito and Arnold

Do a quick side-by-side. No, do a slow side-by-side. Do we look like twins? No. But for some reason, we got called "spooky" by a spooky grocery store checker yesterday for not being twins.

That's pretty much the story. We went into Tom Thumb (Nadege took a picture of it, so amused that we have a grocery store named after a tiny fictional man.) yesterday. Things went considerably normally until we got to the checkout line. The guy bagged my items up and gave me careful instructions about swiping my credit card, choosing the appropriate credit/debit option, asked me if I wanted cash back...you know, pretty much the same exact thing the machine was asking me at the very same time. While he was schooling Nadege in the same fashion, he asked if we were twins.

At this point, we take a quick look at each other to figure out why. Well, we're both caucasian, both in our young 30s, roughly the same height, give or take a couple of inches........we both have teeth, we both smile, we both have two eyeballs. That's pretty much where it stops, as you can see.

So we looked back at the guy and said "no." He paused and continued ogling us, mystified. The awkwardness was broken with even more awkwardness when he replied "spooooooooky."

How do you respond to this? HE WAS THE SPOOKY ONE! Should we have said, "No, not really. You see, she has dark hair and I have lighter hair. She has brown eyes and I have green eyes. She looks French and I look like an Irish alcoholic." Instead, we just let the spookiness linger in the air until finally - sweet finally - Nadege was instructed to sign her name on the pin pad. Thank goodness for that bit of direction, because who knows how she would've proceeded with that transaction.

By the way, I do realize that two out of my last three posts have been about grocery store experiences. Life is slower in Fort Worth.

We Don't Need Another Hero, Apparently.

During a living room discussion with my family today, we broached the subject of ridiculous team/mascot names, like the Fighting Turkeys, the Cranes and the Doves, among others. One thing led to another, and we decided to dive right into the topic of politically correct mascots, which most people can agree has been carried a little too far.

When it comes to naming mascots, schools and professional teams seem to have "reservations" about honoring Native Americans, their brave characteristics and their traditional appearances. Many teams that used to use names like "Braves," "Chiefs," or "Cherokees" as scare tactics, have renamed their mascots something along the lines of "Mighty Mules" or "Corn Huskers." Sure, references to agriculture can be intimidating, but not as intimidating as tribes of people who fought fearlessly for their culture and land. Right? Logic tells me it's racist to erase Native American symbolism.

Then there are bad words like "confederate" (which means, as my father pointed out, "unified"--TERRIBLE!) that have been obliterated from our vocabulary and imagery, as in mascot names, team names and flags. I grew up in Odessa/Midland, where we used to have the "Confederate Airforce Base." It's now the "Commemorative Airforce Base." I'm not one to fly a Confederate flag because I know it's now associated with racism, and I don't want to promote that in any way, but how far are we going to go to make sure sensitive people don't waste a tree, pulling too many tissues from the box?

I'll tell you how far. In 2005, New Mexico State decided their Mascot, Pistol Pete, needed to drop his weapon. According to NMSU, there was a real gunman in the 1800s who shot the men responsible for his father's death. Apparently, you don't name your mascot after someone who avenged his father's death 200 years ago. All the frat daddies who research their school histories would probably just go postal. So now, Pistol Pete (that's still his name) carries a lasso. Watch out, Pete, I'm good with a gun and now you're left holding a short rope.

Kfed Up.

The littlest things in life can make me feel wealthy, like walking into a CVS after paying for my own oil change (not at CVS), my head held high, bringing whichever energy drink and greeting card I feel like straight up to the counter and paying for it with my hard-earned credit card.

So, I parked my clean car (a rarity for my car to be any color but "dirt") and sauntered toward the pharmacy in my summer dress (a little fancy for West Fort Worth). I think I had just finished replying to a text message when "Kfed" came limping out of the drugstore with his walk o' attitude. I could feel his eyes scanning me as though I were his own personal malt liquor aisle. I immediately decided I should've worn a longer dress, as this particular liquor was on reserve and not necessarily on the menu. I also applauded my inner self for just saying "no" to that Twinkie at the office. It was paying off. I mean, creepy or not, I was getting attention.

We passed one another. The inner battle of "Gross, stop looking at me" and "I must look extraordinary" was over. Phew. But he tossed a grenade back over his shoulder and hit me with a subtle, but direct, "Mmmmmm." Ouch.

It's not that these types of cats are unusual. One may throw one's high heel and hit an "mmmmm" guy. But it makes me wonder: Does it ever work for him? And if it does, does it only work on particular types of women? And if so, do I need a makeover? Is there some soul searching I should be doing based on this incident?

I haven't found the answer, but I just want to say that if you're an "mmmmm" guy, please stop and consider the following:

A. It won't work.

B. If it does work, you're making yourself a victim of a pretty trashy next few moments/years/babymama dramas.

C. If it doesn't work, you're making the victim of your disgusting display of auditory debauchery a bit bewildered and perhaps even disgusted, because, after all, she probably had dignity before she walked into the CVS, and now she's wondering if maybe her bra strap was showing or if she somehow gave off the impression that she liked the wife beater/boxer short scheme.

Moral of the story is, next time I need a greeting card, I'm wearing a Laura Ingles Wilder dress and heading to the Hallmark store. That's my grenade. Quite the warrior, huh?

Sweet Doris

There's this lady. Her name is Doris. She's the first person I met here in FW. She has colored my whole view of the people here.

Doris runs a local coffee shop just south of downtown, in a developing neighborhood. It's called Gallery Art Cafe, kind of a catch-all coffee shop for diners, art patrons and bums like me looking for a place to do work with free Wi-Fi.

Doris co-owns the joint and works the register. The first time I came in, I told her I may make some strange requests because I was a recent Austin transplant and I wasn't sure of the small differences that might exist between coffee shops here and there (which was a nice way of saying that I figured a Fort Worth coffee shop might be unrefined and lacking in choices...I'm such a snob). I told her I wanted tea. "Hot tea?" she asked. I told her yes, and she said that I looked like a hot tea girl. I took that as a compliment, being that I'm a snob and all.

So Doris let me pick out my teabag and even let me have two for the price of one. A little later, she sat down at my table with me and asked me all about myself. I've never met a coffee shop owner - much less an employee - so sweet and genuinely interested in people.

Now, a week and three visits later, Doris has my self-designed business card and says she will do what she can to help me find a good job. I promised that if I got a freelance gig writing for the business publication here I would profile the Gallery Art Cafe. She hugged me.

Sweet Doris. Sweet Catholic Doris. I hope they make more like her around here.

A Love/Wait Relationship

New template (not that the change will be at all noticeable or memorable to anyone but me...but it's a personal mile marker), new times. I'm just finishing out my first week in Fort Worth, Texas. I'd like to say I moved here, bought a new house, started a great job and am accruing a ton of friends. But I'd be lying. In fact, I live with my parents, telecommute from a coffee shop and am utterly thrilled to have conversation with people outside my bloodline.

What is most curious to me thus far is that people here have a recurring tire issue: nails and screws. My mom has recently had two screws in her tires, my dad has had one, and I just overheard a mother of two at this coffee shop talking about how last week, she got two nails in her tires. In a time and place where the most involved interaction involves ordering tea, I just think, what, with all I've been hearing about this issue, it must be widespread. And I want to get to the bottom of it. That's all.

My overall impression here is that people are extremely nice and eager to help. I met a chiropractor, for example, who put me in touch with the owner of an advertising agency, who gave me all sorts of helpful information. Doris the coffee shop owner even sat down at my table with me to chat. It's kind of amazing.

But in true form, the most truly tiresome part of being here is my family. Yesterday, my plan was:

Wake up.
Mow.
Work out.
Go swimming at my aunt's.

What really happened was:

Wake up.
Wait for my mother to wake up at 10:30.
Mow.
Wait for my mother to get ready to work out (which consists of an hour's preparation: One must mold the hair and apply the makeup to gauge the intensity of the workout, which, if certain intensity is reached, is marked by sweaty, matted hair and melted face paint).
Wait for my sister to wake up her husband.
Wait for said husband to get out of the bathroom.
Run to order business cards in the meantime.
Drive half a mile and turn around because there's - yes - a screw in the tire.
Drive myself to the gym.
Mostly socialize with sister and husband.
Drive an hour to aunt's and swim. Finally.
Go home (well, you know). Feed the monkey on my back called: Scrabulous.

And yes, waiting does bother me a GREAT deal, but like I told my mom yesterday, I like being bothered by my family, because it means I have a family. And if nothing else, I'm loving that.

Now, to get that job.

Master Cleanse part 1

So I am doing the "Master Cleanse" thing. It is 10 days of lemonade and laxatives. Mmmm. Oh, and salt water.

Two nights ago, I drank some laxative tea. The following morning, drank some salt water. This is the food of the gods, I tell you. Then I went to work on making a thermos full of special lemonade, which consists of water, maple syrup, lemon (or lime) juice and cayenne pepper to taste. Just like mom used to make!

That thermos was empty by noon so I had to go down the street to the grocery store and pick up some more supplies. Long story short, yesterday wasn't too bad.

Today, other than watching people make sandwiches and smelling tacos and garlic waft about the office, I feel great. It's been quite sometime since I've actually jumped up and down with excitement, but today, in ping pong, I did just that.

Well, I'm being summoned to do some work. I could just do a cartwheel.

An Eighth Note Away from Home

Do you ever hear songs so beautiful they make you cry? Like someone just spilled out the contents of their heart, like perfume, onto staff paper, and waved it through the air...I had forgotten the emotional rhythms that a song could evoke - rhythms pounding not so deeply within the shell of everyday life - shell so fragile that good reverb could just up and chip it away.

I am pausing a movie right now to capture this thought, because it is very seldom that a movie can stir...really stir. I'm inspired to write, to play, to think - but mostly, to feel. And I'm saying that's a good thing.

Ms. Pacman and Ghosts

Kid Rock

Used to hate kids. They took attention away from me. But man do I love me some KIDS now! If you're under the age of 14, I'm going to immediately get all Mother Goose on you and act like a big geek.

Here are my 2nd cousins, Zoe and Cole. They are the kids of cousin Casi, and I melt every time I see them.










Zoe on the right. I threatened the 10-year-old boys at the party tonight. They flirt with her, I kick them to the moon.










Here's "4-Tooth Cole." Not afraid to take out enemies with that melon head of his.

2nd Grade Rock Star

THIS...would be my 7-year-old cousin. Clad in a black AC/DC shirt, she just was not afraid to bust out with some "TNT." Though it's obvious she learned the song from her has-been dad (no offense, Wes), I have to say she's WAY cooler than me. I still don't know the words to this song.

Sorry it's all dark. I'll post some photos of her so you can see what she might've looked like had it been daytime.

Caught With My Pants Down

Today, I went to this boutique down the street to buy something for a family member who shall not be named. We are relatively the same size, so I was able to try clothes on as if I were her.

The cloth curtains were ample to hide me from public view. Unfortunately, it's hard to lock cloth curtains.

As I was straining a pair of jeans over my child-bearing hips, I heard someone across the curtain say, "Do you want to see a naked lady?" She jerked the curtain wide open, and we locked eyes while she processed what she had just done to me.

She returned me to my privacy and ran away in horror, clutching a(n obviously perverted) toddler in her arms.

I peaked my head out the curtain. Everyone in the store bugged their eyes i my direction to see what would happen next (yes, everyone had front-row tickets except the only other customer, who was obviously in another dressing room). Actually, I didn't give anyone time to guess, because I started laughing as soon as the lady averted her eyes. She apologized profusely while I explained that it was one of the funnier things that has happened to me.

In other news, I called the Cat Chat show on Martha Stewart radio and had Nadege (radio name "Hope") explain her rescue cat's digestive issues to the world. So all in all, the day has been fun. Except that I'm not making a dime!

Tonight, it's chicken wings and trivia. I'm trying to come up with a name for our team...thinking something like "Mahmud I'm a Dominate."

what's my theme? oh yeah...

What’s my motivation, what’s my motivation? I have been asking myself these questions since I stopped posting regularly. I finally have an answer for myself: the trials and trends of single life in the Big City. I happen to live in Austin, one of the Top 10 Places to be Single (a – hahahahahaha), but I think any single 20-30-something gal exhausted by the big sea of smelly fish can relate.

And so I aim to capture the fleeting questions, daydreams, theories, emotions, and even the very epiphanies that I stumble upon in day-to-day life.

Let me give a quick preview, using my last three dates as examples: In a small town, had I met these strapping (young?) fellas, I probably would have given them second – nay, third – chances. Let me rephrase. I would’ve developed serious relationships with them until, six months to a year later, when I would break up and surrender to a life of loneliness. But no, in the Big City of opportunity and endless handsome lads, I have a nice time, shake hands, kiss on the cheek, whatnot, and pretend (even to myself) that I like them and would certainly like to get to know them better. In next-day reflection, I decide that I’m not really all that smitten, that I should erase said fella from my contact list, that I should refuse to return phone calls, emails and text messages, and that I should go ahead and call so-and-so tonight, try him on for size…

It’s not that I’m so good looking and charming that men camp out in front of my apartment like I’m harboring a new Chick-Fil-A, dangling a carrot of free chicken burgers to the first 100 in line. It’s just - I think the string of potential S.O.’s (significant others) follows every woman and man in the Big City, because none of us are settling and none of use are giving up.

Anyway, this is going to be the primary topic of most of my posts, and I hope to post regularly. Because being single in the Big City is never ever dull.

Short Story

There was a time in Ireland, not so long ago, when midgets roamed the lands, setting up camp outside of small towns. The townspeople thrived on the nomadic dwarf industry in those days, manufacturing goods particularly suited to the midget consumer.

In fact, it was extremely difficult for these towns' "normal" sized people to function comfortably, as local goods and venues were too small.

One cool, rainy day in March, the O'Dometer little people crowded into a pub with dirt floors and wooden kegs for walls.

Stuck indoors all day with nothing to do but drink the walls, one lady dwarf got a little "free" and started doing the funky chicken dance. This woman was quite unattractive, and the midgets hated "the chicken." They were SO mad!

You know the rest. The piles of stools. The pole...

Anyway, the lives of the people in that angry mob were cut short because of their brutality, and all the midget bars in Ireland were shut down. But if you're ever in Ireland, ask them about the midgets and their bloody stools. They'll understand.

Moons Over My Hammy

What's wrong with people? I mean, it took awhile, but I got used to seeing a little more backside than necessary when the uncompromising low-rise jeans showed up on the fashion scene. But if you'll notice, this girl's shirt is actually covering the top part of the buttocks. She is actually mooning folks. I can't think of anything else to say about this.

Co-Dependent Surprise

Okay, okay, it's a double dose. I haven't posted in awhile, so I guess I'll be (kind of) real. Let's see... geez, there is a lot of drama up in the world around me that I won't go into, so aside from that...

I'm going to a new church called Riverbend. It's Baptist, but you can't see it on the sign. It's big. There are a lot of people in the 20s-30s group. Anyway, I bumped into a long-lost family friend when I was in class one morning and flipped. And now we're kind of inseparable. My co-dependency is kind of pathetic.

That's us with Mandy - goes Mandy, Shelby, and me. Lil' 6-year-old Zoe took this picture. That kid's going somewhere.

Not unlike me - I've been going to tons o' events for iTaggit, comic conventions, antique shows, art shows, football games... Last week we handed out pencils at an art show. We thought they were going to be artist graphite pencils. Nope, turns out they were #2s. Just like they use in Algebra 2. Sorry, but no self-respecting artist is going to accept anything that remotely reminds him or her of math. So if anyone needs a pencil, you know where to get 'em.

And that is all for now.

Jada B.

That Man is CRACKED

This dude. Is. Trippin'. Surrounded by an angry monkey, gossipy dwarfs, an acorn bell, a starfish, and a musical leprechan, he has GOT to feel out of place. I mean, what was he thinking getting mixed up in this crowd? Oh well, at least he's got a guardian angel on his shoulder.

Yes, I'm blogging. Gasp. And it's not for iTaggit this time. Gasp. It's about the deeper things in life.

Like Perrier, which I have developed a deep appreciation of, and not just because I get to pretend to be fluent in French if but just for one second.

What else has changed? I have been eating boiled eggs a lot. What does it mean when the white part comes off with the shell? Does that mean I cooked it too long? This recent batch gives me hiccups. Cooking is so hard.

Besides my recent eating and drinking episodes, I suppose I have been spending a great deal of time wondering about things, much like Thoreau. I'll be sharing more later. Please keep reminding me to post. I love love love posting!

Breaking News: Ice Is Slippery

Furious Winter Storm Covers Ground in Half Inch of Snow

Okay, I've been home three days in a row (five if you count Saturday and Sunday). Life isn't too exciting for me. I mean, I spent last night sliding, on foot, down the I-35 access road to the upper deck. Because it was covered in ice.

The rest of Austin is pretty bored, too. The only subject that got local news coverage last night was the snow and icy conditions. The breaking news was that the Governor's Inauguration Ball was not canceled. They actually interviewed guests about how they got to the capitol in such severe weather conditions.

"Well, I thought that if I got outside and went really slowly, I could get here really slowly. So I went outside and took everything slowly and now I'm here."

For those of you who don't live here, it has been raining, drizzling, and lightly snowing for three days. Well, the snow only lasted half a day, but it still happened. Because of this, the roads, at times, have been icy. And pretty much all the businesses in the city have been shut down for three days.

Back to the news. Here is a paraphrased quote from the field reporter: "I'm standing here, on a patch of ice, actually, and it is really slippery. I have to be really careful so I don't fall on camera."

Really? Hmm. Get off the patch of ice, then.

They interviewed several people who had to brave the weather yesterday. Below the interviewees' talking heads, of course, would be their name. Below that would read "Slipped on Ice" or "Fell on Ice" or "Looking for Ice Patches."

And that pretty much sums up the status of everyone who leaves the house.

Look Ma, Cancer Stories!

Being a mother is easy. But from where I'm standing, being a good mother takes superhuman powers. Or a lot of help from God. I'm not sure when the time comes that I'll ever have feet big enough to fill my mother's shoes. I was reminded today what a good parent she is. (It can't go unsaid that my father, a.k.a. Nurse Delton, is an incredible parent as well, but today a certain tv show triggered a particular memory having to do with my mother.)

Let it be noted that this picture is not of my mother. This is Amy Grant, someone whose life and career my mother has been forced to follow for the past 22 years, but she did not give birth to me (Amy Grant - not my mom. My mom gave birth to me.) Also, this child isn't Amy Grant's child. Nor is this child me. So to recap, it's Amy Grant (not my mom) and a child who has cancer (not Amy Grant's child or me).

So during Thanksgiving last month, I spent a lot of time glued to a) my computer, b) the TV, and c) the couch. Ahoy, they were exciting times. During one of these nail-biting adventures, a St. Jude's Hospital telethon made an appearance on the TV. I was locked into the Inter Web and not paying much attention to television - until I heard "Amy Grant." My ears perked. I cranked up the volume. Ooh! Amy Grant was going to be on this telethon!

My mom sauntered into the living room and asked if she could change the channel. "Uh, news flash. Amy Grant is going to be on this show." Okay, I'm sure the dialogue was not quite so cool and apathetic. It was probably more like, "Mama, mama, guess who's gonna be on this show?" To which she most likely responded, "Amy Grant." I think at that moment, she knew if she was going to watch TV, she had only the one choice.

Several times through the first hour of the show, I would hear an occasional "How sad," from the corner of my ear, which was tuning out the sunny, "Little Kayla has terminal cancer and six weeks to live" type dialogue. My mom was a helpless victim whose heart was undoubtedly going out to these dying children. My heart, on the other hand, was more like going out to a comedian on youtube.com.

After about an hour of the program, my mom asked if we could change the channel. "I can't stand it anymore. It's too sad. And Amy Grant hasn't even been on yet." She was on the verge of tears.

Okay, who, but an awesome mom, would watch over an hour of heart-wrenching programming about dying children just so a self-absorbed, obsessive fan could catch a glimpse of her favorite childhood singer? Nobody. That's who.

And so, to my mother I say, there's nobody like you. Next time I'm over, I'll put on some Sesame Street and do a little jig to put a smile on your face. I don't know why. I'm just sayin'. I will.

amazon.boring_nerd

I went to amazon.com today and was awakened to my true nature.

Your Recently Viewed Items

Christmas to Remember ~ Amy Grant (Audio CD) (72) 20 used & new from $5.25	The Total Money Makeover: A Proven Plan for Financial Fitness by Dave Ramsey (Hardcover) (178) Price: $24.99 $16.49 You Save: $8.50 (34%) 77 used & new from $9.95 In Stock	Crossing the Chasm by Geoffrey A. Moore (Paperback) (84) Price: $17.95 $12.21 You Save: $5.74 (32%) 75 used & new from $7.45 In Stock
Christmas to Remember Audio CD ~ Amy Grant	The Total Money Makeover Hardcover by Dave Ramsey	Crossing the Chasm Paperback by Geoffrey A. Moore

Sick Cracked Feet

Meet Heel Balm. Heel Balm, everybody. Grossed out? The sacker at the grocery store was, and he had nooooo qualms at all about expressing himself. Honestly, I've never had someone comment negatively on my groceries. Feminine products, Odor Eaters, wart remover, whatever. They're supposed to just scan them through and bag them, maybe avoiding contact, maybe not, but definitely NOT acknowledging embarrassing purchases. I'm used to this courtesy, so imagine my surprise at Randall's the other day when the sacker scrunched up his face at my Heel Balm and said "eww" while he held it up for closer inspection.

I know. It's gross. Do we have to talk about it? So, I have crusty feet from playing sports. I do. Whatever. Hey everyone, my feet crack and blister! Sick! Sick! I'm a crazy lunatic!

Okay, the real reason for this post is just to say I plan on picking it back up with the blogging. Now I'm used to my job and the flow of things, and I've got a better handle on my time and the management of it. So stay tuned! And thanks for being patient!

A Hunk, A Hunk of Burning Love

My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble (hey -la, hey-la my boyfriend's back).

I don't care who you are. He's a dream boat. (Well, unless you are sister Yvette...she thinks he could use a serious update on his 'do. But she's wrong...I mean, just look at him.)

Still, there are others who are stuck on their own handsome, more dead heartthrobs, like Elvis...in this case, "others" being my mother. I do believe she's saving up to take my sisters and I to Elvis Week in Memphis in August. Well, I says, I can't wait to celebrate The King in the sweltering August heat. That will be so fun and unusual and confusing all in one. I think that week marks the anniversary of his death. I remember being there in Memphis just days after he died. No, actually, I don't, because I was IN THE WOMB while my mom stood in the miles-long line in front of Graceland. Yes, my mother flew to Memphis while she was with child to see The King lying cold in his coffin. Surprisingly, other members of my family put her to shame in the area of Elvis-worship. My aunt has an Elvis refrigerator magnet complete with several pieces of his wardrobe. And I did catch my grandma swaying back and forth in front of the TV while she watched an Elvis impersonator performing...something. I mean, I can't remember, because I was quite fixated on the image - this middle-aged woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, tugging on the genuine Elvis scarf she had wrapped around her neck. Apparently, he had tossed this to her during a concert. Come to think of it, my mom has her beat in that department. Elvis actually kissed her cheek during a concert. I have to wonder if she felt guilty for accepting his affection after she had, years before, stolen his personal belongings (including a cigar and newspaper) from his limousine.

Anyway, I can't wait for Elvis Week. I wish they had Rick Perry Week. Heck, I'd take a week off for that.

Narnia Halloween

In case you didn't know...

Little Pants

"What to get Mandy Pants for her birthday?" I wondered as I slapped on my evening garb and headed out to scavenge a gift. "Well," I says, I says, "I'll get her a gift certificate at Austin's original Waterloo Records. There, she will browse CDs and records to her heart's content while she eats vegan brownies from Whole Foods."

So I juked on down to Waterloo, parked and strolled on in. Now, this. Is. So. Austin. I went in and soaked in the surroundings. Passed the records, the loitering punk rockers, the occupied headsets, and to my surprise, there was a dreadlock rhasta dishing out some beer from a keg. "Oh. Well, of course. Beer in a record store." So I stood in line, paid him a dollar tip, walked up to the counter with my beer, as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do, and inquired about gift certificates. "Yes, we can give you a $25 gift certificate. We can give you a gift certificate for $24.99 if you want it." I did. Actually, I said, I wanted one for $25.99. It seemed like so much more. So there. I had the gift certificate for Mandy. But then I had the beer, too, so I didn't think I should leave just yet. Plus, the Suicide Girls were there, whoever they were, and that's who the party was for. So I wandered the store and stumbled upon said Suicide Girls. Everyone was snapping pictures. I felt they must be famous, and I should photograph now and research later. Once I figure out who they are, oh, how I am going to brag.


Now, here's the crux: do I address the part of my evening when a crazy homeless man laden with matches and whiskey cigarettes struck up a conversation about thievery and church breakfasts, or do I detail the supposed highlight of the evening when I sat amongst yogies at an Indian restaurant? What to do, what to do?

Well, back to where I was. The beer was still sitting in my hand. I didn't want to waste it or chug it like a sorority girl, but I didn't want to pretend to be interested in the store, either. Too many people cooler than I ever thought about being.

So I ventured to the side of the building and sat at one of the picnic tables, where I was flanked by one crazy homeless man and two hipsters. The crazy man proceeded to be crazy, and the hipsters joined me at my table, I think so they could pretend to be too engrossed in other things to converse with this man anymore. No more "You're welcome for the 38 cents. No problem." The crazy guy, long story short, ranted about the theivery committed by the City of Austin concerning the bus system; quoted scripture from John and asked me why I was looking at him that way; and snatched his pile of goodies from our table after we started talking to each other instead of him.

Fast forward. Party at Ararat, where belly dancers dance and accordian players play and African finger pickers pick. And Jada opens a champagne bottle, sending the cork into the tin roof, causing the entire restaurant to duck and cover. But whatever. Here are the pictures.

Mandy got a Dashboard Diva. I mean, I have nice things, too, but I don't have one of these things. She's so lucky. Look how happy she is.


These are her mermaid friends. I mean, well, one of them, she does yoga with. The other one works with her. I'm actually not too sure about the far two, but they're land creatures. So scratch the mermaid thing, really.


"Hi. I'm Little Pants Daugherty. I get baclava for my birthday, FOR FREE. No big deal." Oh, you, just wait til my birthday.

Mandy ate her baclava and didn't share it at all, which was fine. And then they went to Emo's to pay $12. And I didn't want to pay $12, so I went to Marjorie the Artist's house. We looked at art and talked extensively about yoga and how, you know, she doesn't eat meat and wakes up real early and stuff, which was enough to make me swear off cundalini yoga for life. She says it's pretty much the opposite of Catholic school. Cuz in Catholic school you either become a nun or wear glasses. She wears glasses, and so she feels pretty fortunate. But then, in yoga, some people don't shave their legs, or they wear turbans or stop cutting their hair. Just whatever it takes to connect to your inner connection thing. AND she doesn't even have road rage anymore. Just think of that. She wonders what's happening to people around her and hopes they get to the hospital on time whenever they cut her off. So that's a pretty good reason for the yoga. The yoga thing conflicts me. I want to be happy in traffic, but I need to shave my legs. And I don't want to let go of the hope that Catholic school is the greatest thing ever. So I finished my soda water, strapped my boots back on (b/c you're not supposed to wear them at her house), and drove home in a mad and confused rage.

That's where I am now.

Oh, and Mandy liked her present. I even added an extra penny in the envelope to make it an even $26. No big deal.

Soccer Players Wear Shinguards and Stuff

I wanted to use this image to talk about how unobservant some people can be, and I will, but then I noticed the two girls in the background playing that Apples on a Stick game, and I thought, well, how funny, how everyone thinks her own little story is so important, but when you take a wider view, you see people are really just doing their own thing, playing hand games.

Speaking of soccer games and people doing many different things at once, I totally busted these little boys pinning another boy inside a port-a-potty. It was half-time during a game a couple of weeks ago, and I skipped off to the bathroom. I saw a short little hellion with his arm kind of wrapped around the side of the thing. Once I got around to the front, I saw three boys using all their body weight to hold the door closed. I shouted at them and looked real mean, and as soon as they scattered, another little boy frantically spilled out of the rancid room, sobbing uncontrollably. I put my hand on his shoulder and asked him if he was okay. He put his hand on my hand (ewwww!) and just kept crying. Again, I shouted at the other morons, "Donde esta la, la..." (Someone needs to work on her Spanish.) They pointed to their parents and ran toward them, as they knew was required of them at the moment. Anyway, I wonder how long that little victim will be traumatized by that. Kids are mean.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

See these uniforms? These are called "soccer uniforms." I was wearing one Tuesday night after soccer practice, cleats and all. I had mud caked on my arms and legs as well. I went into Walgreens like this. When I left the store, I saw this guy sitting in the back of a pickup truck, smoking a cigarette, maybe drinking a beer. I don't know. The important thing was that he had on a homemade shirt that read, "Soccer Moms are Hot." So when I passed him, I said "I like your shirt." Get it? He loves soccer moms. I'm a soccer player. Ironic, right?

Here was his witty response: "Oh, do you play soccer?"

Yep.

Could I Just Use Diesel?

A friend of mine recently told me that I should sit down and think of myself in psychological terms, maybe kind of look at things from a clinical standpoint. Pretty sure this means he thinks I'm not quite "right," but whatever. I respect his opinion, so I contemplated. There I was at a gas station, pondering, when I saw the signs. And now I can accurately understand my feelings.

Sometimes I'm feeling

On those days when maybe I haven't prayed in a couple of days, I feel

Then there are those really unfortunate times when life is spinning all around me that I feel

I think these definitions can pretty much be applied to anyone, so please feel free to use these terms as benchmarks for where you are in life. And when you do, thank your illiterate culture who made this psychological breakthrough possible.

Condom Talk at Work

This post might be kind of inappropriate, but it is something that happened to me today, so I'm going to suck it up and take whatever criticism that comes my way - like Amy Grant.

So, this week at work, all the board members are in town, meeting with the executives all day. They hole up in our board room eating grapes, drinking sparkling water, and generally, they just talk about important/probably boring stuff.

Anwyay, this morning, I kept having to go back and forth across the parking lot. Obviously, I first had to walk into the building, but then, I kept having to go out and get some information about my tires, because I'm going to buy some new ones. The first three or four times, I kept my mouth shut about something I was observing out there, but it got to the point where I just had to tell someone.

So after my fourth or fifth trip back to the office, I say, to my peer, a 27-year-old woman at the front desk who is my new friend, I say, "Hey, did you notice that condom out in the parking lot?" She says no, but she saw a bunch in 7th grade in the trash can and was traumatized. She asked me where it was in the parking lot. I said it was just now leafblown away by the leaf blowers. She said they must have some funny stories, those leaf blowers. ...Neither of us was speaking too loudly, because the fancy board meeting was transpiring just a few feet away, behind closed doors. Or, at least I thought that's why we weren't speaking loudly.

Just then, one of the board members (male, middle-aged) steps out of the kitchen, which is a nook that is a mere 10 steps from this girl's desk. He says 'hello' to us on his way back to the meeting to try and break the silence. It was the most awkward 15 seconds I've had in a long time.

He walked into the room, shut the door, and the girl said, "Yeah, I didn't really get the chance to tell you he was there before you made that announcement."

So yeah, there's that. And then there's the fact that I had about 16 poppy seeds in my teeth when I met one of the board members. Oh, and he met me while I was sitting on this huge ball.

This is my day so far.

One Small Baby

So last night, my cousin had this baby. Yeah, it was wild. He arrived three months before his due date, 2 lbs. 4 oz. Cole Gray Daugherty. There were some complications during the pregnancy, but I don't think anyone expected him this soon. Something about the placenta tearing away from the wall was expediting the labor. We're not sure why that happened yet.

What breaks my heart is that nobody can hold him while he's in there. My cousin said she can put her hands in there and touch him, but she can't really caress him or put much pressure on him at all. I know this gets to her already. I can't blame her. But I think all in all, they're all blessed to have each other, and I was blessed to be around for it.

The freaky part was the contractions. I'd never seen anyone having them before. They were 10 minutes apart when I got there. I kind of cringed every time I saw her tense up for one of them. Then they started getting sharper and more frequent. It was quite excruciating to watch. Not to sound so, um, yeah, like righteous, but yeah, I wanted to take some of those contractions from her. It seemed like too much for one person to take.

He was born at 11:38 last night, and was on a respirator as of this morning. He should be off it soon. He'll have to stay in an incubator, maybe until his original due date, but other than that, he seems fine.

Anyway, that kid is smaller than a loaf of bread. Check out his face in proportion to that man's hand. I think probably his nose is the size of the guy's fingernail. Wild. Little Loafy.

Tar and Feather the Motorists

Traffic on El Camino Real
Originally uploaded by richardmasoner.

As if there weren't already enough angry people in Austin, now the bicyclists are upset that drivers who kill cyclists are getting off to easy. So now there's a campaign to make sure lawmakers crack the whip on said drivers. I'm not sure about details, because I was getting ready for work when I heard this on the news, but I did hear something about the campaign arising from a fatality that occured on Highway 360, right in the middle of Austin.

I'm not saying I advocate running cyclists over (I really do think it's sad), and cyclists have every right to be on crowded highways, but don't you run a risk when you do certain things, like ride your bicycle on a highway jammed with SUVs, designed without bike lanes?

What I wonder is, who do these cyclists think motorists are, exactly? A bunch of murderers out cruising to Kinkos, hoping to slaughter a cyclist or two on the way?

And I'm not sure what the punishment is now, but I'm thinking, in addition to lifelong guilt and nightmarish memories, the motorists are probably getting more than a slap on the wrist.

To my knowledge, only state and federal lawmakers can change these types of punishments. So, do cyclists think that senators are cool with the fatalities? Like, they roll into, say, San Antonio, for some interim conference and crack jokes about how fun it will be to run cyclists off the road once they get back to Austin? "Oh those ignorant cyclists," they say. "Let's make sure we don't punish whoever hits them so that the bloodbaths will continue. BWAH HA HA HA HA!"

This begs the obvious question: Why don't cyclists ride on country roads (or at least not highways)? Is that too simple? Or does that lack the thrill of not knowing if an Escalade will hurl you head first into your final breath? Just curious.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Popular

Part of the constant rotation of people following me around everywhere I go.

Last night was nightmare-free, all sweet dreams, as I remember. Well that's one way to keep my prayer life alive! Thanks for the support, guys. It's nice to sleep peacefully after a prayer.

For now, I am holed up inside my apartment. Today was just one of those days where I wanted to stay inside and write (although I didn't), maybe because it rained all day, or maybe I'm not handling all this popularity so well. (Sigh. Dramatic sigh.)

Honest. The thought crossed my mind this morning to post a myspace bulletin explaining to all my friends that I love them, but I need to crawl in a hole for a few days. But I didn't. I still might, though.

My sister Britney and I used to take our chewing gum out of our mouths and moosh it together. We'd start in the middle of the long hallway in our old house. She'd hold one end and I'd hold the other and we'd see how far apart we could get and keep the chewing gum in one piece. 'Twas an adventerous life.

Anyway, I feel like that gum! Only, I feel like there are maybe 10 or 15 people holding onto it, stretching me in every direction. And I wonder how long it's going to be before part of me just breaks off. I don't know what color of gum I am or what kind or anything. I think maybe Dubble Bubble or something.

Ah, the life of a popular girl. It's a hard-knock life. Just, just, come closer. I'll give you a glimpse.

Wednesday friends over to watch"lost" and some other tv show; Thursday going home to do more work and then watch movies and eat dinner with a friend, go by a coffee shop, friday, go to the grocery store, have a friend over, go hiking at 10 p.m., saturday, buy plants, go grocery shopping again, play a soccer game (lost), eat chinese food with a group of people, meet other people at a party, meet other people at another party, visit another friend, sunday, go to church, eat out play mojo kickball, paint plant pots. I was, needless to say, exhausted.

It was funny cuz the sermon at church was, in part, about choosing your time wisely, knowing when to say "no," not spreading yourself so thin that you have weak connections to community. My friends had planned to go eat after church and then play some mojo kickball. I, of course, had to do something else before joining them for kickball. Again, I was squeezing them into my busy schedule. So I said, "Old people. You watch tv today. I'm going to play with my friends." I know, I'm a darling.

Did I squeeze it all in? Nope. I missed a party Saturday and a boat ride Sunday and another party yesterday.

Yada, yada, yada, I'm weary of answering every call, returning every e-mail, saying yes to every invitation. So yeah, if I'm late getting back to you, if I don't go to your event, please don't take it personally. I'm a sociable gal. I'll be back in no time! Probably by this weekend, in fact. I mean, tomorrow is "Lost" night, afterall. Cassie and Nadege will be here. Um, and you can join us if you're a girl.

Rated Real

Tonight's post is not going to be a show. It is not going to be fun. It will be heavy. So if heavy is not your thing, if talk of spirituality weirds you out, you can skip this one. Sometimes I skip this stuff. It's uncomfortable for me. Uncomfortable that other people think I think this way, which is extra incentive to write about something lighthearted, just to give people what they want. Cuz really, I'm a people pleaser. But I can't do that tonight. I would dishonor my soul and my God if I chose tonight to fish through my head for a humorous, crowd-pleaser and not talk about this weighty issue. You know, people don't mind so much talking about God, but talk about Satan and they think you're crazy. So think I'm crazy, but God/good is just as real as Satan/evil.

And if I don't address it I'll be denying it's existence and empowering it at the same time. So I'll face this problem, give it to God and let Him suffocate it. So here it goes, sans apology, sans cool.

I just interpreted, in one moment, the two nightmares I had this weekend, which weren't provoked by scary movies or books, fear or guilt. In both nightmares, someone broke into my apartment as I slept.

In the first, a black shadow burst through my bedroom door, approached me swiftly, violently. Seconds before he entered, I intuitively grabbed a gun and aimed it toward the door. When the figure arrived, I fired point blank, and though I hit him several times, I did not hurt him. The figure attacked me vigorously, in what way I do not know. Over and over, even after waking and falling back asleep, the nightmare repeated, beginning with the grabbing of the gun, then the opening of the door, then the gunfire, then the relentless attacks.

The second nightmare was one slow, long scene, a paralytic nightmare. (If you've never had one, it's like this: you think you're awake and your eyes are open, but you can't move; or you know you're dreaming, but you can't wake up. It may fluctuate, as this one did - I thought it was real and I could see, but I hoped it was a dream.) In this dream, my bedroom door was closed, and though I couldn't hear anything but a soft meow from Blitzcat, I knew someone was in the apartment. I struggled to open my eyes. I used all my will to open them halfway. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and white baseball cap. He stood there for awhile and watched me, like he knew I was struggling to move. I softly whimpered (I believe this was actually audible), a feeble attempt to cry out for help. He moved toward me, almost as if he were floating, slowly, methodically, always watching me, looking into my eyes. He slid on the bed, silently, like a snake, maneuvering toward my body. He took his left hand (the hand between him and the mattress) and brushed my cheek with his fingers. ....The touch startled me and jolted me awake.

Now, I'm usually one to either believe my nightmares are products of an underlying worries or something I saw or heard, usually on the media. I've thought that maybe they could've been spiritual attacks, but in the morning, that always seems like kind of a ridiculous idea. However, in this, looking around at some of my heavier, more confusing, circumstances in my life right now, and letting my mind accept certain possibilities, I believe that I saw in these nightmares a spiritual attack that I block in consciousness. I think demons are preying on me in my vulnerability. And as crazy as that sounds to some of you, whatever. I feel it in my gut.

So what to do? Well as soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to get on my knees and fight back. I'm going to pray that angels will stand guard over me while I sleep and empower me. I'm going to pray for clarity to see the attacks. I'm going to ask God to surround me with protection and guide me in consciousness and unconsciousness. With God, I will win this fight. With God there is boldness. And peace. All I have to do is cry out. So I will. I'll do this all week, through next weekend. And watch: I'll not have one nightmare. Because God honors those who call on His name.

In closing, I will jump down a rabbit hole: If you don't believe in demons or evil spirits or whatever, consider this: murder, rape, genocide, etc. are undeniably evil, we can all agree. So there is evil. If you think it comes from something outside the human body, then there must be an unseen force creating it. If you think it's produced by the human body, then you must agree that some of us are inhererently evil, making necessary some kind of salvation. I'm just sayin'.