Le maudit Mo D.

you should cherish your boring days

I hate LA.
Surgery scares me. A lot.
I cried over a chicken mozzerella panini.
In Westwood.

I shouldn't have asked the Dr. for the gruesome details.
Popsicle stick tittie shot.
Waterbed chest for two months.
Imagine a heart beating inside a waterbed.
Waves. Gloosh.

I hate LA.
City of a thousand stupid bitches driving while talking on the phone.
Saw one with a Smith sticker on her car.
LA makes Smith bitches dumb.

Where my mom lives
Everything costs a dollar more
than Austin
$9 tampons
Bite me, California

(I should say that my mom's new house is really super sweet and is really big and has a nice yard and wood floors and is in walking distance of an independent bookstore!)

Scared scary stupid ow chest hurt scary hospital poop.

4/41

It's May 29!
It's a big day for my family of two!
Bob's birthday!
Our anniversary!
Four years of love!
Forty-one years of Bob!

Other anniversary August 13!

YAY!

I go to Cali tomorrow, and the adventure begins...

Food Saver, 1; Mo, 0

After much domestic unrest and disturbance on the topic, Bob purchased the coveted Food Saver vacuum sealer system today at Costco. I have expressed disinterest in this product because it takes up a lot of space and will end up being just another kitchen doodad that never gets used. I also think less technology is more, and do not need a motorized appliance to store my leftovers.

However, Bob felt that the product was something we needed and cited the fact that every other member of his family owns one, and therefore he needed one too.

As I write this, Bob is watching the Food Saver instructional DVD. He has proclaimed the bucktoothed, unpleasant female host "hot" and is rooting for the sealed cheese as if this were the g-d Kentucky Derby. She looks like a reject from the local news team. I hate her.

She is touting sealing "nonfood items" like paintbrushes and first aid gear.

Bob and I are directing Maestro this evening at 9pm, Chez Hideout.

ride the quatrain

I have found that I enjoy describing my current life in quatrains. Here, more quatrains:

Warm sunny Austin day
Going to work at the T-bird
Buckets of unexpected rain
Emergency Ho-Cho, por favor

My Gimpy Chair
Rises and falls
The slow motor comforts geriatric users
I will never use the heat feature

W-of-the-D Podcast
Sonorous voice of the short bald man
I hope Ira G. is still your pal, buddy
Been meaning to unsubscribe

Chocolate cake squares
In clear clamshell boxes
I chose soup
Only a fool chooses soup over cake!

Mom's new house!
Pantry painted tomato red
Lonely, confused stepdad
He'll never figure it out

Katie the Pest
Is the Best
In the West
I have confessed

First fifty novel pages
Polished like a Mustang
Want to start something new
But not the novel about the Jew

Improv hussies
Slutting around their scenework
Always playing prostitutes
I would like to slap them

The rain has stopped
I am a bit cold
My ho-cho foam is cold and gross
Time to go home

one slice short of an apple

I did not win the local novel manuscript contest. This does not come as a shock to me. The first chapter of my novel has changed drastically since I submitted the one that I entered back in February, which was before I had gotten my first round of criticisms on it. However, I scored a 45 out of a possible 50 points and received the following comments from a "published author in my genre." This woman (girl handwriting) did not follow the directions of "two to three sentences of constructive coments in each of the 10 categories," offering no more than one sentence in four categories. Which irks me a bit. I mean, I was promised minimum 20 sentences and I got four:

Good job
The synopsis does a good job of handling the conflict
Handles POV very well
Very well done, However, I did find the language offensive. This story is outstanding without it. (there is a good deal of pottymouth in my book, and graphic descriptions of abuse. I will not change my use of the verb to fuck meaning to have sexual relations with another person.)

And:
This is one of the best submissions I have read. The writer has a clear concept of the craft. Characterization is outstanding.

Not bad for a chapter that has since had the shit edited out of it.

Thank you, reviewer person.

whoosh

While I was away, the air conditioning unit at my house was replaced after two decades of faithful service. Here in Texas, you don't want to skimp on the a/c. This new unit has a rather loud hum to it, a whoosh sound as if there were constantly a plane flying overhead.

The lady in the seat next to mine on the Hartford-Dallas leg of my trip was lacking in social graces. During my layover, I wrote the following poems:

Douchy lady
Wants my seat
My aisle seat
Where life is sweet

Perfect Perfect Paradise
Now even more perfect
Trader Joe's simmer sauces
Delicious, reasonably priced

Indeed, the PV has a Trader Joe's, giving it a very high liveability rating by yours truly. Austin needs a TJs. BAD.

ugly in paradise

The Am. Airlines gates at Bradley are in the old concourse. The new concourse contains Southwest. When I came out here last September, I was greeted to a surprisingly modern and well-designed airport--not the stark Yankee grayness I remembered from my student days. I guess the State of Conn is fixin' to renovate over here, because this old section of the airport hasn't changed. It's deeeepressing. Fortunately, there is free wi-fi. We most definitely deserve it.

Today as I was taking my final walk through Noho, I spied not only Jacqui S. bursting out of the door to Fresh Pasta Co, but also the same T&T delivery guy who brought me my chee-ken brah-lee BITD. This is also the same guy implicated in the Albright Tittie Singers incident of 1997, wherein the ladies of our next-door rival house thought they could demonstrate their superiority by standing on the street in front of our house topless, yelling and singing songs at the women of Big B. The Albright/Baldwin rivalry was always mind-bogglingly lame, and when we became upperclassladies, we all but abandoned it, even deigning to watch tv shows in their living room if our set was otherwise occupied. While my ladies and I could care less about viewing the breasts of our rivals, T&T Guy had the great fortune of making a delivery run at the exact moment that twenty or so young women were exposing their ta-tas for all of Bedford Terrace to see.

T&T Guy stopped his car in the middle of the street and poked his head out the window and brazenly feasted his eyes on all the titties. Now, the street is on a rather steep hill, so periodically, his foot would slip off the break, causing his car to roll backwards. The rollback would jar him from his boob viewing and he would pull forward and stop again. And then roll back. And then pull forward. Someone's chee-ken brah-lee was delivered cold, I'm sure.

A decade later, he looks exactly the same, although his old delivery Corolla has been replaced by a newer Dodge Neon, but with the same little T&T sign on top. I hope his days of food delivery are filled with many more barebreasted ladies.

the garden of everything

Thanks to my rental car, I got to do everything I wanted to do in Northampton, and more!

Elinor has been an extremely thoughtful, generous, and valuable mentor and friend this weekend. I feel so very grateful and indebted to her. I demand that all my readers go and buy one of her novels RIGHT NOW!!

I love Northampton and it will always be something of a home to me, but in my life, there is no true home without Borpe. I love him so much and look forward to bringing him here someday soon.

I will be home in A-town tomorrow night for much needed sleep and Tex-Mex before I spend all of June in California.

writing from beauty

I am currently sitting at one of my Top 3 Most Beautiful Places In the World, According to Mo, the Montague Book Mill in Montague, Mass. I would even put the waterfall at the Sawmill River, where the mill is situated, a few pretty-points higher than Paradise Pond. It is that breathtaking.

It's about a half hour drive from the Ladycollege, a few towns north of Amherst and a gorgeous drive up a two-lane road past several farm stands and old-timey New England houses. And tobacco fields. And UMass off in the yonder.

I had an unfortunate incident in which I got locked in the Book Mill bathroom and had to pound on the door until someone rescued me. I laughed about it. Now I am sitting outside with a cup of white tea purchased from the Neutral Milkish Lady Killigrew cafe. They were even playing mournful oompah dirge music, in the spirit of NMH.

I don't know that I'm learning much about how to manage a reunion. The reunion kids, rightfully, just want to have fun and hang with their friends. I'm guessing if they were to take the time to write me a concise post-mortem e-mail (don't count on it), I could learn just as much. I did hear some grumbling from the vegetarians who were upset about having to pay $40 for a tofu dinner. We will make sure not to do that.

I fear it is raining again. I must put my pooter away. Frowny.

SO BEAUTIFUL!!!

the ladies, the ladies!

I rolled into Noho at about 2pmEDT and it was like I never left. I immediately saw two girls holding hands walking down the street. Then I saw a gaggle of white-haired members of the Class of '57 walking along with their old husbands.

I'm staying in the house where Sylvia P. attempted suicide c. 1953. I guess her spattered blood must be sacred or something, because the house hasn't been renovated since the '70s. I've complained loudly that they completely redid Big B last summer, installing a surfeit of bathrooms and creating little suites with social areas. L-House is OLD SKOOL and the bathroom smells like and reminds me of Big B back in my day. I can't wait to take a shower with one of those huge turbo shower heads. My room also has that old nubby wallpaper and is the same size/dimensions as my junior year room in Big B. It's even right next to the bathroom.

I just had me a tasty salad at the Haymarche. Usually I hit T&T like a tornado the minute I roll into town but for some reason, I'm not feeling it just yet. I'll definitely go, but it's not like I'm jonesing. Maybe I can convince Elinor to go there for lunch.

Things change here, and things stay the same. The Hay is big and ridiculous, but they still have the best ho-cho. The Smiffies, even though they are a decade my junior, look the same, dress the same (except for those pesky Crocs) and give off the same vibe. It's like they all sprout from the same hedgerow.

Shiney gets here manana!

I desperately want to bring Bob here. It would be taking a huge gamble on whether he'd love it or hate it. I told him about the unusual practice of pedestrian rights here in Noho. I was crossing the street anywhere-else-style (i.e. stopping and looking both ways, like Sesame Street taught me) and this apparently frustrated a driver who had stopped for me. Here in Northampton, pedestrians, like swans, are royal. We place a foot in the street and by law all the cars have to stop and let us pass. The driver shook her head and drove right on. There are flashing lights and signs that say "FAILURE TO STOP FOR PEDESTRIANS $200 FINE."

For some reason, this upsets Bob.

There are (by my count) six sushi bars here, and only one place I can think of where one can get a big steak. This ain't a meat town. I can think of a few good burger places. But not like Texas.

Massachusetts taxes probably wouldn't sit well with him.

A condo goes for at least $300K here.

But it is so awe-inspiringly, breathtakingly gorgeous! The trees! The pond! The bricks! SIX SUSHI BARS! How can you not love Noho, Mass??? I do. But I love Borpe more. He has arms for hugging and legs for putting my dirty feet on.

I love the '90s!!!

As far as the generational wars go, I am careful not to sound like one of those pathetic baby boomers that just can't get over the sixties. Unfortunately for everyone else, a lot of these self-reflective public-masturbator types found themselves in movie exec positions and flooded the '80s and '90s entertainment markets with rubbish about how fucking awesome the sixties were. Yawn. My mother is fortunately not like this. She will tell you that the sixties sucked ass. She even took it so far as to dump a bunch of really valuable vinyl albums that she had acquired in her youth IN THE TRASH the last time she moved (not this recent move). That woman is many things and nostalgic is certainly not one of them! And that Brokaw guy and his "Greatest Generation" book about geezers who fought the big war, smoked a lot of cigarettes in the 1950s, and got to retire on fat pensions with full health insurance. Again, yawn.

So it was with great trepidation that I indulged an NPR "Driveway Moment" (TM) this afternoon about the resurgent career of Ms. Courtney Love. She has apparently hired a big-time music producer to engineer her come-back. The NPR commentator even referred to her as "the Widow of Kurt Cobain." I was thinking "go Courtney!" even though I will probably never bother to listen to whatever shiny newness she unleashes upon the world.

But still, as I try to keep a lid on my love for the '90s, I am beginning to understand the fervor of those irritating boomers and their Big Chill hoohah. I am still very thankful that my mom chose 1976 to give birth to me. It was a good time to be born.

Good Morning Meme!

Good morning, meme! This taken from Marc/Matt's blergs.
(copy and paste, BOLD places you've been to, add a new one at the end)

1. Times Square, New York City, NY: 35 million visitors every year
2. National Mall & Memorial Parks, Washington, D.C. (Washington Monument, Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, the war memorials): About 25 million
3. Disney World’s Magic Kingdom, Lake Buena Vista, Fla.: 16.6 million
4. Trafalgar Square, London, England: 15 million
5. Disneyland Park, Anaheim, Calif.: 14.7 million
6. Niagara Falls, Ontario and New York: 14 million
7. Fisherman’s Wharf/Golden Gate National Recreation Area, San Francisco, Calif.: 13 million
8. Tokyo Disneyland/DisneySea, Tokyo, Japan: 12.9 million
9. Notre Dame de Paris, Paris, France: 12 million
10. Disneyland Paris, Marne-La-Vallee, France: 10.6 million
11. The Great Wall of China, Badaling area, China: About 10 million
12. The Great Smoky Mountain National Park, Tennessee/North Carolina: 9.2 million
13. Universal Studios Japan, Osaka, Japan: 8.5 million
14. Basilique du Sacré-Coeur de Montmartre, Paris, France: 8 million
15. Musée du Louvre, Paris, France: 7.5 million
16. Everland (amusement park), Kyonggi-Do, South Korea: 7.5 million
17. The Forbidden City/Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China: At least 7 million
18. Eiffel Tower, Paris, France: 6.7 million
19. Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure at Universal Orlando, Fla: 6 million
20. SeaWorld Florida, Orlando, Fla: 5,740,000
21. Pleasure Beach (amusement park), Blackpool, England: 5.7 million
22. Lotte World (amusement park), Seoul, South Korea: 5.5 million
23. Yokohama Hakkeijima Sea Paradise, Japan: 5.4 million
24. Hong Kong Disneyland, China: 5.2 million
25. Centre Pompidou, Paris, France: 5.1 million
26. Tate Modern, London, England: 4.9 million
27. British Museum, London, England: 4.8 million
28. Universal Studios Los Angeles, Calif.: 4.7 million
29. National Gallery, London, England: 4.6 million
30. Metropolitan Museum, New York, NY: 4.5 million
31. Grand Canyon, Ariz.: 4.4 million
32. Tivoli Gardens (amusement park), Copenhagen, Denmark: 4.4 million
33. Ocean Park (amusement park), Hong Kong, China: 4.38 million
34. Busch Gardens (amusement park), Tampa Bay, Fla.: 4.36 million
35. SeaWorld California, San Diego, Calif.: 4.26 million
36. Statue of Liberty, New York, NY: 4.24 million
37. The Vatican and its museums, Rome, Italy: 4.2 million
38. Sydney Opera House, Sydney, Australia: More than 4 million
39. The Coliseum, Rome, Italy: 4 million
40. American Museum of Natural History, New York, NY: 4 million
41. Grauman’s Chinese Theater, Hollywood, Calif.: 4 million
42. Empire State Building, New York, NY: 4 million
43. Natural History Museum, London, England: 3.7 million
44. The London Eye, London, England: 3.5 million
45. Palace of Versailles, France: 3.45 million
46. Yosemite National Park, Calif.: 3.44 million
47. Pyramids of Giza, Egypt: 3 million
48. Pompeii, Italy: 2.5 million
49. Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia: 2.5 million
50. Taj Mahal, Agra, India: 2.4 million
51. Angel Falls, Venezuela
52. Pyramid Kukulcan in Chichen Itza, Yucatan Mexico
53. Temple of the Descending God in Tulum, Quintana Roo Mexico
54. Dunns River Falls in Ocho Rios, Jamaica
55. Star Trek: The Experience, Las Vegas, NV
56. Space Needle Seattle, WA
57. Machu Pichu, Peru
58. Amber Palace in Jaipur, India
59. The Smithsonian in Washington DC
60. The Berlin Wall, Berlin, Germany
61. Stonehenge, England -- I really wanted to go when we were in England but we didn't! BOO!
62. Auschwitz Concentration Camp, Poland
63. Cape Cod, MA
64. Vienna, Austria
65.Experience Music Project Seattle, WA
66. New England Aquarium Boston MA
67. Gilligan's Island, Bahamas
68. The beaches of Sicily, Italy
69. Dr. Pepper Museum - Waco Texas
70. The Picasso Statue in front of Chicago City Hall - Chicago, Illinois (Think Blues Brothers)
71. Santa Monica Pier - LA, California
72. Salem Witch Memorial - Salem, Mass--I almost got thrown out of here for rowdy behavior!
73. Dealey Plaza - Dallas, Texas (where JFK was shot)
74. Ice Rink at Rockefellar Center - NY, NY
75. The dungeons of Cinderella's Castle - Magic Kingdom, Orlando, FL
75. The Rain Forests of Costa Rica
76. Glacier National Park, Montana
77. Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Factory, Waterbury, VT

whiplash girlchild in the dark

I am packing for this week's sojourn to the Ladycollege. This trip is a semi-pain-in-the-ass because I will be staying in a campus house and that means I have to bring my own sheets and towels. The college provides a thin white sheet and a manky old tan blanket that screams "barracks," so I am bringing my own from home. So as I was rooting around trying to find the freshest-smelling towel to use in the communal bathroom this week, the mail came and lo and behold I got another moneygrab letter from the Ladycollege Fund. I ripped it open, sort-of hoping it was another doucheworthy diatribe from the previously-mentioned Megan Douchebag '07. I am without my car this afternoon (it's at the car hospital) so I was thinking maybe another Megan-bashing blog entry would make me feel productive or at least not focused so heavily on the BREAKING OF MY CHEST IN THREE WEEKS.

Sadly, it's from the respectable Karen B., who is an alum of my era and someone who I've met. She's been out in the world so she knows how to write a development letter. So instead I have had to fill my afternoon with thinking about my chest. My bowly bowl.

At plotties this morning, I had an achy pain in the heart region, which subsided quite rapidly. I was worried that I was having an aortic episode that required horspitalization, but I finished the class and feel fine. It was just another reminder that I need the surgery, that I can't go on being a salsa bowl for much longer. ALTHOUGH...last weekend it was brought to my attention that I totally could have worked as a naked sushi serving platter, and my bowl could have held the soy sauce. I MISSED MY MOMENT. Of course, that job would have required strategic waxing and weight loss. I look like I've had more than my share of sushi when the clothes are off.

THE NOVEL IS NOW JUST OVER 80,000 WORDS. The query letter is killing me. I am hoping Elinor helps me make a log line. There is so much at work in this novel.

"Brother and sister return to hometown to collect inheritance and get swept into organized crime plot to extort money from their cruel, sadistic grandmother." But with DIY knitting and Armenians.

Okay, never mind.

vulnerable

Improv problem. I have an improv problem.

An improblem.

I can't be vulnerable on stage. Even when I am playing and I have made a conscious effort, in my head, leading up to the show, I just can't be vulnerable.

This could be because I dislike vulnerability. But that's not the name of the game.

I get fighty. I hate vulnerability. I hate it in real life. I don't know what it is, but I can't even consciously do it on stage. Or in rehearsals. Or ever. I need an all-challenge rehearsal of just vulnerability.

Poopers.

Last night's show, "Barnyard: The Musical" was really good, though. It ended with a funeral. I didn't like that. I am having major death issues these days. But both shows were outstanding, and well-received by the audience.

I am still thinking about the Trudy's menu item "stuffed avocado." Hugberg let me have a bite of his. It is an avocado (the world's most perfect food) and some chicken coated in batter and deep-fried and then smothered in sauce. I want one. It was the best worst thing I ever tasted.

do something that scares you

I forget where I heard that, if it was a hipster meme on a black sticker or part of that we-thought-it-was-Vonnegut commencement speech thing from a few years back (wear sunscreen), but I realized today that in the next month, I will be doing two things that really scare me.

1) In a week I will be handing my manuscript to Elinor for her reading and opinionating. I keep reminding myself, "if I am a no-talent hack, would Elinor have kept after me for ten years? No. She'd have dumped me in the river along with all the other no-talent hacks that have passed through her writing classes over the years." Still, the prospect of her saying, "well, Mo, this is balls. (she's the nicest woman ever, and would be really motherly and kind about it)" is still something I fear.

2) Chop-socky. Enough has been said about getting cut open and having one's costal cartilage removed.

So I am definitely doing exciting things if I'm scaring myself, profoundly, twice in a single month.

Geegsters have a surprise show tonight at Coldtowne. Come check it at 10 if you're in A-town, bored, and reading this.

Where there's a will, there's a Will

Once a week I have lunch with my friend Joolz. Joolz is a quality mama, a real mama, and keeps it real, and weekly we go Thai one on at Mam's, Austin's finest Thai restaurant. Our most favorite waiter in the history of restaurant dining is at Mam's. His name is Will and he is sorry that he hasn't been able to use those free improv tickets I gave him.

Recently, Mam's has started putting oogies in the mixed soy sauce, but only oogies that Joolz can taste. I think it tastes just fine, but she says that she tastes horse in their food, so we've been trying other places. Horse-flavored oogies are strictly a Thai import.

Even when we try other places, they are usually Asian places. Like Zen or Bansai. So today we tried Ming's, the new place on the Drag. It's an odd place. They spent a lot of money on swanky seating, but served the food on styro plates. The food is nothing to write home about: cheap, salty, MSG-laden takeout crap.

The best part of lunch today, aside from the loveliness that is time spent with Joolz, was when I was waiting outside of Ming's and who should pull up in his car and say hi to me but WILL! Will asked me what I was doing, loitering in front of a Chinese restaurant during lunch time and I told him coyly, "oh, nothing..." but he knew. HE KNEW, especially when Julie appeared and started screaming and running away from ol' Will.

Will gives us a special kind of sugar. None of that at Ming's. I like Mam's better. They have real plates.

spoiled children soon to fall

I've been getting shitloads of pre-surgical bodywork. It seems decadent, paying someone to touch you. I'm doing five private sessions of Plotties over the next three weeks. I got a massorj yesterday. And today I went to my therapist, which is picked up by my insurance. Yay insurance.

On my hospital intake sheet, under religion, I put BUDDHIST. I don't know how I feel about this. I'm more of a fan of Buddhism than an actual Buddhist, and I put that in the event that I am offered a chaplain. I would prefer a Buddhist chaplain to no chaplain at all. If I am to make sense of things via organized religion, my preferred organized religion is the Dharma. Though I do not sit zazen and have not formally taken refuge, in a palliative situation, I would like to be offered refuge and solace through Buddhist teachings.

Is that good enough? My heart is pure.

The Geegsters have a last-minute show on Saturday at 10. My last before going in for the chop-socky. If you are in A-town, come to Coldtowne and see us shake our jelly.

steamy potboiler

I've been reading Lionel Shriver's "the post-birthday world" upon the recommendation of the learned NPR book review lady who interviewed Shriver on the air. I found the premise enticing: a woman in a safe, solid relationship falls for a dangerous, dashing snooker player. The novel then follows her down two paths: one, in which she resists temptation and stays with her partner and the second, in which she gives in and goes after the snooker player. The whole thing takes place in England and is fraught with references to Indian restaurants.

For those of us who have buckled in for the long-term with a love-partner (Bob and I joke about future diaper-changing and bib-wearing), it is pretty much a given that at some point, some other hot piece of ass is going to come along and give us a mental run for our money. There is no greater high than new oogly feelings, except maybe heroin. I do not recommend using heroin.

Well, Ms. Shriver understands that too, because no matter which path the protagonist of this novel takes, she's hosed. The snooker player is a borderline-abusive douche who takes over her life. But when she stays with Lawrence, her partner of a decade, he comes across as smarmy and inattentive. In either interweaved story, she just seems lost, malcontent, bratty, sad, and generally unpleasant. Maybe she should just ditch both guys.

At any rate, Ms. Shriver is a balls-out brilliant writer. I salute any novelist who can navigate unreliable narrators and rather dislikable characters the way she can.

I forgot to write about last night's Gift From Bob. Bob's dentist shows her patients CABLE TELEVISION while she cleans and drills, so Bob watched the Food Network while getting dental work. During which time he saw a spot about baked fruit, so last night Bob brought home plums, blackberries, mangos and Three Peaches (like the NMH song) and sprinkled the tops with sugar and baked for twenty or so minutes. When paired with HEB 1905 Vanilla ice cream, it was the most delicious, delightful convergence of fruit and sugar and it brought the word "compote" back to our daily conversations. Thank you, Bob!

whitey white

I went shopping at Tarjhay today. I hate shopping, but can usually control myself in Tarjhay. They are not far from my house and they sell useful crap. I was in hot pursuit of an all-white ensemble for my upcoming participation in this charming event:

That would be the virginal Ivy Day parade at the Ladycollege. It takes place butt-early in the morning. It's a parade of alumnae in chronological order. Up at the front are the wheelchair-bound centenarians (my first Ivy Day featured two members of the Class of 1916!) and the hair goes darker as the parade goes on. Lined up along the sides of the road are the white-clad members of the current graduating class who then take up the end of the parade, which culminates in "last chapel," which is a stern talking-to from the president.

Anyway, as an alum and a representative of the Class of 1998, I am expected to wear all white. Unfortunately, Tarjhay's whites weren't doing it for me and so I came home and ordered my whitey-white outfit from my friend the internet. I prefer obtaining my clothing from a box, even if it costs me extra in shipping.

However, I did manage to pick up a cute cheap-o dress from the Targ. An unexpected find. It is tres cute. While I was in the dressing room and privy to its three-way mirror, I got a good gander at my bowl...sheesh, it's a bowl alright. I mean...I look like a Spirograph. I should not have a crater in my chest. It made me sad. Sad that it's there and sad that it's going away soon.

My chest has always been veiny. I wonder if my veins will disappear.

A Man of Meat

My hubby Bob is truly a Man of Meat. His insatiable appetite for flesh is unparalleled. Indeed, he is one of those guys who feels he hasn't eaten a meal unless there's a big hunk of seared/broiled/baked/fried dead animal somewhere. Last night at the Giant Party of Monstrous Proportions (in which not one but two pinatas were smashed and there was loud karaoke and swimming and a margarita machine!), Bob commandeered the grill and prepared late-night burgers and dogs for the hungry, liquored-up masses, even burning his arm in the process, leaving a deep red wound in its wake. A battle scar.

A few weeks ago, Bob acquired the Alton Brown cookbook that comes with meat maps and livestock-shaped fridge magnets, and this book has quickly become his atlas into the world of preparing cheap cuts of meat that taste like more expensive cuts. Several bloody sections of cow have come through our kitchen, mostly delicious. I wasn't much of a meat-eater before Bob entered my life and raised my cholesterol. Truly, he raised my cholesterol. It was much lower before he and his meat showed up.

I prefer a more plant-based diet. But I like meat, too. I bet if I had met and married a vegetarian, I would be a vegetarian. I should stand up for my eating habits. I mean, let's talk about my relationship with chicken. I never CRAVE chicken. It's there, it's protein, it's familiar. Sometimes it's really good, but I don't love chicken. So why do I eat so much of it?

I want a brownie.

how sassy changed my life

I am almost done reading How Sassy Changed My Life, a book that chronicles the institutional and cultural history of Sassy Magazine (1988-1994). Sassy was an enormous influence on my coming-of-age. Imagine this wonderful cultural moment: that you could go to your local newsstand and buy a teen magazine that made fun of celebrities, celebrated indie rock (how do you think I found out about Tsunami and Unrest?), promoted zines, fought hard to put fat girls in fashion spreads, and had a conspiratorial, often sarcastic tone to its writing. Imagine you are reading this at the age of TWELVE. It was like this message from the future that said, "hey nerdy girl! you are going to be really fucking cool someday, and here are all the secrets to getting there.."

Major life decisions, such as choosing the Ladycollege, were born of my Sassy readings, as well as my taste in music and probably even my writing style. In 1994, the Sassy I knew and loved, died and was briefly reborn as what the book HSCML calls "Stepford Sassy," which was just patronizing and fluffy Teen magazine using the Sassy name. I remember finding Stepford Sassy in my Smith mailbox (Box 7458, if you care) and looking it over, heartbroken. It was a gloriously offensive pile of shit. I tore it to shreds and tossed it in the mailroom recycling bin, only to find that I wasn't the only Smithie moved to do that.

I've always hated Jane magazine. The first time I read it, it felt like a slap in the face, like after everything Sassy taught me I was supposed to look upon my twenties as a time to buy $40 lipsticks and starfuck like a retard. During my time in NYC, I met a guy named Jeff who had recently accepted a writing position at Jane and who urged me to read it. I told him (and I wouldn't do this now but at 23 I was apparently tactless) that I loved Sassy and hated Jane, but wished him the best anyway. I was so painfully intimidated by Jeff because not only was he hot and cool and would never in a million years date me, he was friends with E-G-G-E-R-S and was published in early McSwy's, and Sassy den mother/goddess Christina Kelly was his boss. I still have my e-mails from Jeff. I see that I was still as big a verbose dork at 23 as I am now at 31. Go me.

I ran into Jeff on the street the night before I left NYC for Austin. He was with some woman who was pretty and probably clever too, and he reminded me that he still hadn't paid me for winning his Super Bowl pool. I told him I'd e-mail him my address when I got to Austin, which I did and he sent me a check. I still look upon that night harshly, as if in that moment, with less than twenty-four hours from my escape from NYC to the big, bonny bosom that has been my life in Austin, I had squandered whatever wonder and magic I might have found in New York, if I hadn't been too young and scared to go looking for it.

panty raid

I've felt like crap the last few days. My dormant sciatica has returned and I've had a prolonged and messy encounter with Aunt Flo this week. I realized on the can yesterday (I do a lot of thinking on the can) that I've more than half way through my menstrual life. I've had the damn thing for twenty years now and can expect to go another 15-17. Then I will be slammed with some harsh menopausal bullshit that will be heartily chronicled in the preferred vanity medium of 2022. Which is also the year I'll be needing to get Coco a graduation present. (calendar marked!)

I've also been waking up in the middle of the night wondering if I'm about to die. I'm in some dreamlike state, I guess, and I feel around at my broken chest and make sure that my heart is still beating. It usually is. Then I contemplate whether or not I should get up and go to the bathroom or something. Weird. I should speak to a professional about this.

Anyway, tonight is the bachelorette par-tay of Miss Sha-nay-nay and I am currently preparing for her enjoyment the second round of pudenda-fabulous snacks. The first batch, canned pears filled with pudding and topped with a maraschino clit and chocolate pube shavings, tasted awful, so I trashed those and went for the more familiar and traditional vaginal cupcake, which is a normal, plain cupcake topped with pink frosting, a maraschino clit, and brown frosting curlies. I also got hummus and Sha-nay-nay's favorite carbonated beverage, Fresca.

On the box of Duncan Hines Moist Deluxe (pun not lost on me), the copy reads:

EVERYONE YOU LOVE DESERVES DUNCAN HINES: "When you bake a cake it's likely a special treat for the special people in your life. You care enough to take the time to bake a cake, so make it the moistest, most delicious cake you can. Make it Duncan Hines."

Well, shit. I just about welled up and blubbed out some monster tears over that gorgeous sentiment. I do love my Geegsters, so much that I make not one but two rounds of vaginey desserts for them upon the occasions of their nuptials. But then I remembered that throughout most of my teenage and adult life, I was known to bake cakes FOR MYSELF, because I deserve a moist delicious cake as much as the next person. I only pull out the vulvular decorations for special occasions, though.

I should have made tofu pups-in-a-blanket for phallic balance.

mama mater

Yesterday I found out that I am to be summoned to the Ladycollege in two weeks to "observe the reunion process." I have assumed (as in, grabbing my own ankles) the position of Class of 1998 Reunion Chair, a maneuver I may well live to regret, but c'est la vie. So if the big party next May blows, it's my fault.

I had a little panic about this, like maybe the cosmos is giving me a free trip to Northampton because my surgery is going to go awry and this is going to be the last time I get to see the place until my ashes are dumped in Paradise Pond. Of course, this is the one weekend that I'd prefer to stay away from Noho, as graduation weekend the town is overrun with pain-in-the-ass, entitled parents expecting to get the last of their money's worth out of the $150K they laid down for their daughter's education, only to find out she spent the last four years smoking dope and kissing girls.

I always play up going to Northampton in my head, and then when I get there I am rather bored. Elinor will be in town, as will (hopefully) Miss Shine. So there will be some quality ladies to spend some time with. I should also make an appointment with Ye Olde CDO. Pretend like I have prospects beyond writing dorky novels. This excess of personal time is what got me this free trip in the first place.

mistakey

I've had saggy, deflated tires in the front of the Corolly for a few days so I drove it over to the mighty Sears Tirecenter for some treatment and it was brought to my attention that I have been a bad tire owner. I have mishandled my tires for awhile and as such, there is uneven wear. They are in the process of fixing the two slow leaks I've got, but really, I am to blame. I am a bad tire owner.

I BLAME GIFTED EDUCATION!

Gifted kids are their own kind of stupid. We were taught from an early age that we are so smart that when we do dumb things like drive on deflated tires, it comes as a shock. The adults spent a lot of time praising me! I went to smart college! What the hell happened?

Stupid fucking gifted education.