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'.

Rapping to a Homosexual

Well, I definitely was dealt a confusing hand today.

Sitting at a red light, I noticed a ruckus coming from the car in front of me. There were three black dudes in a pimped-out ride. The one in the back was shaking his finger, yelling at the person in the truck next to him. He was all kinds of animated. He looked enraged enough to bust out of the car and start a fight.

I took a closer look at the truck. There was a rainbow sticker and then another one about not being straight or something...I couldn't really read that one. Hmm. Maybe this rapper guy was upset about this person's sexuality. I couldn't be sure.

So I turned my music down to try and eavesdrop. But all it was, see, was that the guys were blaring some rap music. The backseat guy was just yellin' the lyrics, evidently so into it that for that moment he BECAME the angry young rapper. Poor person in the truck! They must be so uncomfortable having rap music directed at them. ...Honestly, I was a little angry with the rap guy for being so rude to the other driver.

When the light turned green, I sped up to see who was in the truck. And then I felt even worse for her, because it was this tiny, ancient old lady who could barely see over the steering wheel - we're talking, like, 80 years old or older.

Oooh, if I caught up to those rappers, I was going to give them one very dirty look. You just don't mess with old folks.

As my mind arranged the facts, my anger and pity turned into bewilderment. Forgetting the bullies, I mused that this old, old lady had gay bumper stickers on her truck.

Think about it. It's weird.

Call Me a Politician, But I Like Rainbow Best.

Why do we all get asked "What's your favorite color?" What a stupid question. Maybe it's because I'm so uncomfortable with the concept of deeming perfectly fine colors inadequate to my fluctuating preferences. Really, I feel sorry for the other colors that I don't like on any given day.

When I was little, I said my favorite color was red. Deep down, I don't think I meant it, because I instead of getting cherry or cinnamon snow cones, I always chose rainbow. But now I've come to terms with the fact that I care for the feelings of all colors, and now it's to the point where I'm too paralyzed to pick. I guess I have this irrational sympathy for all colors.

If I liked, say, green or blue, I would be labeled peaceful or loyal. Red-likers are rather fiery and passionate, aren't they? Crazies, to be precise. So I can't keep saying that's my favorite or people will back away.

So I still pick rainbow, because, colors, I love all of you, and I don't want to be boxed in by my affection for any one color. Call it fear of commitment, but I don't want to hurt any of your feelings. Please accept my noncommital answer of rainbow, and deal with this prismic polygamist that I am. Viva la rainbow. And down with the facists who think I should have to choose.

I'm a Fancy Art Girl

It was all very romantic: a concrete stairway flanked by pillars and evergreen trees, a serene pool of water lapping at the shore.

See how pretty?


My sidekick, Nadege, and me.


My friends who might not want to be named.

They're engaged, though. You oughta see the rock on her finger! I should steal her man so I can have that rock.

Anyway, romantic, as I was saying. We strolled up the steps toward a villa that was very reminiscent of Italian style. There we would mingle, eat free food and, ahem, most importantly, view art.

Boy, those art openings are snooty! I mean, yeah, there was a guy wearing a bowtie and a middle-aged woman shouting drunken obscenties at the people downstairs, but mostly it was just fancy people floating around with their chardonneys and "hors d'oeuvers, compliments of blah, blah, blah," all packed neatly in these barbie-sized Chinese food boxes. We even got chopsticks. And fondue. And then I led the way to do the staring-at-the-painting thing. We cocked our heads. "Hmm. Wonder what medium they used? Looks like they did some sort of screen layering here." As if I had a clue what I meant. Oh sure, there were words coming out of my mouth, but did I understand them? No. But I needed to fit in with that lady who had the black dress and sparkle necklace, so I said some stuff. I think I even stuck my nose up a little.

But then I tripped and blew my cover. Glad I'm not sensitive about my clumsiness, cuz the two ladies standing near me guffawed in a not-so-discreet manner. We shared a laugh. Who gives a care?

Moral of the story? If you're a big ole' hick like me, don't go to those things unless you're starving.

The Sister Who Can't Be Trusted

This is my sister, the head that's under mine. She looks sweet enough, someone you'd wanna sip tea with, maybe play badmitton with. DON'T LET HER DECEIVE YOU. SHE WILL TAKE ALL THAT IS HOLY AND IMPORTANT TO YOU AND WIPE IT AWAY! Take this weekend for example. Ahhhh, we had fun, like frolicking-in-the-daisies, click-your-heels kind of fun. Saturday was spent playing croquet and grilling steaks (courtesy of my dad, aka "Big D," "Deet," "Daddy," etc.). My mother actually engaged in a game of badmitton. My mom engages in competitive sports about as often as W makes an eloquent speech. So it was just a fascinating moment for all of us. Entertaining, to boot. Equally as entertaining was my mother playing Catch Phrase, jerking back the thingy with the words on it so she could see it though her granny glasses and spitting out a panicked "OKAY!" before engaging her team.
Fortunately, the beauty of the weekend was captured on the camera I have struggled so hard to get, the camera I vowed to never leave home, the camera I kiss every single morning.

Sunday afternoon at the family's favorite eatery (yes, I said "eatery"), I let them pry the precious camera from my clutched fist. How could I keep the digital goodness all to myself? This particular round of pictures was too rich not to share. So share, I did.

And regret, I did. For my sister discovered the "Erase" menu, (said she didn't know...hmph) and deleted all those precious snapshots of my wonderful life.

Dramatic? Maybe. I'm just sayin', if you see my sister, hide your belongings - especially your camera. You won't have a thing to blog about.

Not a Naked Statue!

So I'm sitting in a meeting with several bosses and co-workers and a marketing team we hired to create ads and promotional material for us. They were showing us a slideshow, pitching slogans, photos, ideas for text, etc., when they came to this one campaign idea which I probably shouldn't talk about for business reasons. But up pops this slide of a naked man covered by a single leaf. And then they move on to other slides. At the end, they asked for feedback. When it was my turn to talk, I said, "I liked everything but the naked guy." I mean, really, you think the average American consumer is going to be A OK with a nudie photograph in an ad? Hmph.

I was reviewing the slides on my PC, when I saw the slide in clarity: It was a statue. With no arms. A marble statue.

I can just imagine them all after the meeting: "She must be Amish."

After a few days, I explained what happened to a couple of coworkers. They had a good chuckle. And now, anytime the marketing company shows us something slightly risque, someone I work with shoots a smirky little glance at me, whereafter we snicker a little bit. When, oh when am I going to live this down?

I dunno, but it's pretty priceless.

Anything embarrassing happen to any of you guys lately?