On surviving the ice age.

You know that I have a history of cockroach run-ins, from the abjectly disgusting (toothbrush) to the "I want to cut off my own leg" (cockroach on my shorts, touching my bare leg) to the garden variety "insect roommate" (Rembert St. house in Memphis). There's a Simpsons when Homer looks at Bart and asks what he's doing, and the next frame is Bart covered head-to-toe in a living suit of bees. "They chose me," Bart says.

I can relate.

Chris came over again last night and we hung out and watched Arrested Development. (Which he has never seen, and which is also a secret test of his humor: he passes.) And what do you want to discover when your fella is at your house? A cockroach. Don't worry, George (Michael) of the Jungle had already killed it, but still. It's a little embarrassing, like an indictment on your housekeeping skills.

So I suppose it's a good thing he wasn't around this morning when I found ANOTHER one in the dining room. Again, GM had already literally torn it limb from limb, and it was the big kind, which means it came in from outside looking for water (as opposed to the tiny, your-house-is-infested kind). Which I suppose should be comforting, but it's just not. Just: ew. I do not want to live this way.

And then GM barfed. Apparently he doesn't want to live this way either.

Paper, plastic, or that newfangled contraption with straps you got there.

So, I debuted my earth-consciousness today by taking a reusable bag for my grocery shopping. I got it from Trader Joe's while I was in California, but because Texas is a godless red state, we don't have those here. So the bag is as much about "That's right--I'm from California! Envy me!" as it is about eco friendliness. Well, maybe 40/60.

When I handed it to the girl at the register, she looked at me like I had asked her to please stuff my groceries into my pants instead of into plastic bags. It kinda made me sad: she had no idea what to do. Do people only use recyclable bags at Trader Joe's and Whole Foods and TV shows on the CW? I'm not on the leading edge of the curve on this, I don't think.*

Plastic bags saved today: 2, at most. But look at it this way: 2 x 52 = 104. That's at least one block of plastic bags per year. It's not much, but it's something.

Ironically, I filled the recyclable bag with bottles of Fiji Water. Nah, I don't use my carbon footprints like that.



*Also, you know that if I'm using lingo like "carbon footprints," I'm not on the leading edge. I'm like an old person talking about "bling." For shizzle.

Sometimes the universe hugs you.

And sometimes it's just a small child in the shoe aisle at Ross.

I went to Ross after work this afternoon, because dates = new clothes. These types of store are ones in which you must be committed to combing through. You've got to be ready to go item by item, step over the millions of shoes on the floor, avoid unsupervised children careening around the store with shopping carts. It's not an every day place; you've got to be up to it. I was. I went item by item, gathered some selections, and received my dressing-room number to try them on.

While I was in the dressing room, approximately 1 million children showed up. And upon discovering that there was a slight echo, began singing. I like this about children, their willingness to sing wherever, whenever. What I don't like are unattended children, singing or no. Especially those who peak their dirty little heads under the dressing room wall. The first time the little girl did it, I said, "No, no," and she tucked her head back under the stall like a turtle. No sooner did I have one leg in a pair of pants and she's peaking again. I gestured with my foot for her to scoot, but she didn't get it. "No, no, go away," I told her. She backed up. Her brothers never ceased in their singing.

So I made my way toward the shoes, wading through the 20% of the store's merchandise that is always on the floor. I passed a kid in the aisle, about 6 years old, shopping with his mom. He looked at me like he knew me, like he hadn't seen me in ages, and then extended his arms. I backed up as if unfamiliar with the international sign for Gimme a Hug. He advanced and hugged me around the middle.

I stood there with my arms raised above my head, in case his mother turned around and saw him hugging a strange woman. I didn't want her to think she needed to contact Chris Matthews or anything.

It was odd. And then I laughed, bought some jeans and a polka dot top, and left.

Choose your own adventure.

My lovely new friend Aaron posted a found poem on his blog the other day. It reminded me of the awesome apology letter I found in my classroom when I was teaching nights at the local business college. Fortuitously, it was the same night I had brought in Davy Rothbart's Found anthology and had a lesson prepared about context and supporting details. Sadly, the letter cuts out at the best part.

Dear Deonte,

Let me start by saying, "I love you too." I was completely surprised this afternoon when I came back home. It was a cold, rainy, dreary day today and yet you took the time out during your lunch break to put a smile on my face and let me know I am loved. I just wanted to say Thank you. It means a lot to me. It was very thoughtful of you.

I apologize if I sounded rude or disrespectful. I apologize for saying, "I hate your family." That statement really isn't true. I don't hate them, in fact I care a great deal about them. I just dislike the things they do, and the way

...The way what?

I hope these two crazy kids worked things out.

Born to run.

Note: gray jeans might not be the Next Big Thing. Gray jeans, black top: it's like I accidentally dressed myself like Bruce Springsteen this morning. All that's missing is a bandanna tied around my leg and a nostalgic melancholy for the American working man.

In which I read a manga book...and like it!

Now that's one sentence I'd never thought I'd write.

I have a co-worker who is trying to break me of my genre-embracing habits, so he gave me a reading list and lent me a copy of Book 4 of Phoenix by Osamu Tezuka. Going into it, I thought: no way I'm reading this in public. No way I'm going to like it, either. Wrong on both counts. That book was seriously fantastic, artistically and thematically.

I lay down my genre arms.

Ok, not entirely: no troll-based fiction. Ever!

Home sweet home.

Wednesday is my two-year anniversary of being an homeowner. It's the single scariest decision I've ever made--scarier than moving to Memphis or to Austin, scarier than when I spent two weeks staying with a Spanish-speaking family in Costa Rica when I was 17, scarier than that time those geese trapped me on the Town Lake trail and I couldn't get by.

I looked for 2 months and toured over a dozen houses with my realtor, who was one of my dad's old frat brothers from San Diego State. Looked only south, past Slaughter Lane and far down on Brodie. And one stray place up north, but still within the metro Austin square: east of MoPac, south of 183, west of I-35, north of 71. And that was the one. I knew it the moment I clamped eyes on it. And the master bedroom closet sealed the deal.

What did I do the night I finally closed, the day I got the keys to my very own 960 square feet? I went on a bad date with a guy who was too impatient to wait 20 minutes to be seated for dinner and made us eat the bar. That guy sucked and I knew it; it was the only time on a date I've seriously considered making for the bathroom and slipping out the door. I kept hefting my keys the whole night, wishing I were alone in unit 101 instead.

Anyway.

I still remember what if felt like to open the door and see the condo as mine for the first time. Of course, I expected the keys not to work--like there would have been a mistake or maybe my loan app had been denied after all or I had forgotten to sign something. None of that: it opened like I owned the place. I did. And I saw every water stain, every crack, every scratch on the countertops. I half expected to immediately step on a rug that was covering a hole in the floor and to sink to my shoulders, trapped, like in Money Pit. It seemed huge: the responsibility, the commitment, the upkeep. I felt more tethered to a place than I'd ever felt in my life, after 7 moves before high school, 3 apartments in college, 2 in grad school. It meant I was staying in Austin for a while. Which was terrifying and suffocating and liberating and stabilizing all at once.

I painted all the walls myself. The kitchen sea-grass green, the bathroom yellowy taupe, the office a soft spring green. The master bedroom silver sage from Restoration Hardware, with a chocolate brown accent wall (the best room in the house). I retiled the kitchen and bathroom floors (peel and stick, but still; it's quite a chore). Painted the kitchen cabinets white. New shower head, new toilet, new kitchen fixture (ok, my dad did all these for me).

Also: a leaking laundry fixture, a rat that died in the wall, leaking flashing around chimney (three times), a horrible plastic bathtub that creaks like your foot is about to go through it with every step. Bent and broken blinds--which is my pet peeve--on three windows.

Nevertheless.

I love this place. It feels like home: some place completely mine, completely my taste, completely at the mercy of my design whims. And now, two years in, I won't have to pay capital gains tax if I ever sell.

Which I can't imagine.

Holy smokes.

Have you ever been on a date when the other person brings a jacket into the theater for you in case you might get cold?

Kinda makes your heart go bleep-bloop all over the place.

Scorpio (10/23-11/21)

Things are happening so quickly right now that you're able to skip over the boring stuff and get right to the heart of the matter. Get ready for some intense physical and emotional transformation to take place over the next few weeks. Major changes are afoot.

Only fools rush in.

Today is the 30th anniversary of Elvis's death, and I've been to Graceland six times.

Not the the two are related.

When you live in Memphis and someone comes to visit you, it seems remiss not to take them down Elvis Presley Blvd., past the car lots and the Heartbreak Hotels, past the prostitutes and the loafers, to Graceland. It is the terminus of every half-cocked high school road trip, the chorus of a Paul Simon song, and verse two of that Marc Cohen song about Memphis. It's quintessential Americana, and a physical example of too much and not enough.

That being said, it's one of the most underwhelming places I've ever been. Six times.

The house itself would not be out of place in a typical middle-class neighborhood in the city you live in. The inside is garish, but only because its saturated in 1970s. Mostly you think to yourself: this is it? The Jungle Room is something your suspect uncle Roy would convert his game room into to lure chicks. (And "chicks" is totally the right word.) Complete with the 4-foot stuffed animal propped on the chair.

It wouldn't even make it on an episode of Cribs. Though it does have a graveyard and an eternal flame. But heck, even my grandpa has an eternal flame (seriously; it's at his church in Valley Center, Ca.).

The whole time you're there, marvelling at the fresh flowers on the grave--because that means someone just brought them--and observing the reverent quiet, you wonder which is the sadder: young Elvis, naive and full of promise, or old Elvis, trying like hell to get it all back? Because you can't look at young Elvis without knowing how it all ends.

The whole thing is a cautionary tale, a monument to that most American of sentiments: schadenfreude.


Blue Hawaii is a good movie, though.

Because I can't resist. And I have access to my parents' photo albums.

Talking points:

1. Triangular hair.
2. Sally Jessie Raphael.
3. Baby evangelist.

4. White pumps.

School days, school days, dear old golden rules days.

Here's me and my sisters in 1984 on a stop on the family road trip to Missouri. Our hobbies included posing, being adorable, and picturesquely holding flowers.

She's come undone.

Six-year-old Emily, my mom, and I, in the car.
E: Why does Cami get to pick everything we do?
M: Because she's the guest while she's here.
C: And because I'm a princess.
E: You can't be a princess; you're 30.
C: Oh yeah? So what am I instead--the wicked stepmother? The evil witch?
E: No; you're the donkey.

***

Emily and I, in the jacuzzi.
C: What did you do when Grandpa watched you while Grandma and your mom were out of town?
E: [conspiratorially] We threw a party for 100 of our closest friends.

***

Emily and I, while I painted red polka dots on her nails.
E: Have you ever done this as a job?
C: No, but I've painted my nails before plenty of times.
E: You should work in a salon. Maybe boys would come in and buy gifts for people, and you could get a boyfriend. And then you could get married. And have a baby. Don't you want a baby?
C: ....
E: Well, you should work in a salon.

Hills like tawny lions.

Something I miss about California that I always forget until I see it again is contour. There are hills and mountains and continental edges jutting up all over the place. Tawny-colored, dotted with green. It's really beautiful.

And then you fly into Oakland and see San Francisco sitting on on the edge of the bay like an anticipation.

I don't want to live here, but I love being here. My niece wants to go to the beach to look for shells tomorrow. Which sounds heavenly.

But for now, I'm going to sit in the jacuzzi and read a book and revel in humidity-free living.

Either way, Tom Cruise wants me to become a Scientologist.

My Posh haircut is actually more of a Katie Holmes, but I think I can rock it. (And maybe have a contractually obligated baby along the way!) As my sister Kristin said: "Good. No one can pull off the Posh but Posh." She's a Spice Girls loyalist, though, so how much should I believe her?

Anyway.

I feel giddy and full of contentment all the sudden. Like everything that should be falling into place, is. But then again, I am listening to pop music with piano and orchestra (the best kind), so it could just be a contact high. So maybe I hear piano and strings, and I picture myself in some of kind gauzy, romantic montage. And it looks almost like a Summertime Lemonade commercial. Slow motion, with a mossy river and long grass and a rope swing and oak trees casting shadows. A kindly old man in a straw hat, holding a beaded glass of lemonade. Ok, maybe not that last part. Somehow "gazy, romantic montage" and "old man holding lemonade" don't quit seem to mesh. Not in my montage, anyway; your montages are your business.

Gosh, I love a montage. I might get married just to have a slide show.

Word Association II

Turquoise jewelry: I will never believe this is out of style. And I'm sure in some quadrants of New Mexico, it isn't.
California: In 4 days. For 5 days.
Genre: I highly doubt I'm ever going to love anything with elves or trolls in it. Sorry.
Toenail polish: light pink.
Sarah Vowell: absolutely not the "female David Sedaris."
Commercials advocating light sweaters: Are you kidding? It just started reaching the upper 90s.
Haircut: a modified "Posh."
Investing and retirement: I hope to marry rich.
Ghosts: yes.
Aliens: no.
Homeownership: the bathtub drain and an electrical socket just broke.
Precious: maybe just a smidge...
Wall paint: Lyndhurst Gallery Beige, if I ever get around to it.
Pirates: Once, on the little dock out over the Mississippi in New Orleans near Cafe du Monde, I overheard a tourist kid ask his dad if the goth kids nearby were pirates.
Project Runway: Where the hell is it? And where the hell is my chiffon?
Poetry: heroic couplets.
Name your imaginary child: Huck (and I don't care what it rhymes with).
Summer song: "Night Swimming" by REM: bring it back!
Dungeons & Dragons: I have a sneaking suspicion a lot more people are still playing this than let on.
What you wanted to be when you grew up: a stand-up comedian (ahem); astronaut; teacher; copyeditor for standardized tests (jackpot!)

Last chances.

If you want to run your fingers through my hair, you better do it now: I have a haircut on Wednesday.

If you want to make out with me, you better do it now: I have a date on Thursday.

By Friday everything could be different. Or it might just be that I'll be in California for the weekend.

I have two ears and a heart, don't I?

Well-established is my love of song and dance. Not particularly for me to do either of those, but to watch others do them. So, inspired by the grand tradition of Grease, Grease II, The Pirate Movie, Stayin Alive, Footloose, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Shag, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, So You Think You Can Dance, etc., I took my Little Sis to a musical adaption of the book "And The Dish Ran Away With the Spoon" at a local children's theater. It was...well, the combination of eager young triple-threats and community-theater-loving parents with misbehaved children is a bit much for me. But it was entertaining and free, and I applaud the group who puts these shows on because the plays are free and they encourage literacy and the actors are doing it out of love. I think that's really cool.

That being said, the dog made the odd dramatic choice to play her role as Blanche DuBois in a dog costume, and the wolf sneered half of his face like Elvis. Gotta get your kicks where you can get them in community theater, I guess.

And speaking of completely unrelated music: is there another song that makes you want to dance in dewy summer grass as much as "Brown Eyed Girl" does?

Hold still.

I just saw The Bourne Whichevercy. (I think I said Bourne Supremacy when I bought the ticket because "supreme" seems more of a superlative than "ultimate," in terms of closing a trilogy. I have the same problem with remembering which is the highest grade of Nissan: Altima--which sounds like ultimate, or Maxima--which sounds like maximum. Also with magna cum laude vs. suma cum laude. These are the things I think about.)

Anyway, it's a good movie. Except the camera work is so frenetic and hand-heldy that I felt like at times I was watching The Bourne Witch Project.

Apparently I have a million Bourne-related puns.

Matt Damon is not attractive to me at all, but when he speaks multiple languages and always knows the right martial arts moves, I can't keep my mental hands off him.

Up late on a school night.

I went with John to the Master Pancake Theater show of Conan the Barbarian last night at the Alamo. If you don’t live in Austin, the Alamo is a theater, not the place we're all supposed to remember. And Master Pancake is like Mystery Science Theater 3000: crappy old movies dubbed over by comedians. I’ve seen them do Flashdance, Dirty Dancing, Showgirls, Star Wars, and an awesome clip compilation called “The John Travolathon.” The shows are really funny, slightly dirty, and typically include a live skit that involves partial male nudity. It’s a good time.

Except Conan…it’s not my genre, so much. And it's not just because I am a genre elitist. Which I am. I was about to say it isn’t anyone’s genre, but the guy sitting next to us (who looked suspiciously like Andrew W.K. with a beard) seemed to know an awful lot of the lines and did quite a bit of fist pumping. When it’s time to party, we will party hard!

I didn’t get home until 1:00 and in my rush to be dressed this morning, I put on the same tank top I was wearing last night. (Don’t act like you've never done that before: it was clean before I went and I only wore it for 3 hours. Plus I’m at the end of my laundry cycle, so pickins are slim. Don’t judge.) Everything else I was wearing is fresh off the hanger.

But once I sat down at work, I smelled something. Something that smelled like a bar after last call.

That something was me. I smelled. Like stale cigarettes and spilled beer. I can account for the latter, but the former is kinda unexplainable. I had a beer, yes, but I didn’t spill it. And you can't even smoke inside anywhere in Austin. Yet the smell was on me. And it created a psychosomatic hang over.

Worse than that, it made me think today was Friday, since Thursday night used to be drinkin’ night. And yet. It’s only Thursday today.

Why am I even sharing this story?