Clever Title

Moving on up

2010-03-09T13:01:00.001-06:00

Alright Malinda, I hope this pops up in your Google Reader so you can resubscribe to my new blog at: http://courtsinsession.com, cause I ain't writing here no more!

Ugh.

2009-06-30T18:16:00.004-05:00

I'm tired but can't sleep.
I'm restless but unproductive.
I'm inspired but inarticulate.

Is it really only Tuesday?

More Lists=My Desperate Attempt to Keep Posting

2009-05-29T11:42:00.004-05:00

I realized recently I have forgotten how to:

-Take a compliment
-French braid my own hair
-Write in cursive
-Spell without the assistance of a spellchecker
-Find the circumference of a circle
-Sing the French National Anthem
-Do the splits
-Beat Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega Genesis
-Do 10 rounds of cat's cradle
-Recite the multiplication tables

But I have NOT forgotten how to:

-Do a cartwheel
-Read a whole book in one sitting
-Make a paper fortune-teller
-Recite fun French swear words
-Sing my first solo (I was a rockin' Fairy Godmother)
-Avogadro's number

Should have been a BS Degree

2009-05-19T17:41:00.004-05:00

My thoughts, as of late:

I've been tutoring high school kids for over a year now and I've developed a problem. I can't stop seeing myself in their habits, specifically their bad habits. While I prepare myself, at least mentally, for graduate school, I have had to come to terms with how I embarked upon my former schooling. My curse, I know realize, was a slightly above-average intelligence coupled with a canny ability to memorize copious amounts of information in a snitch. My entire cognizant educational career was spent keeping myself securely "above average." As the eldest I never had someone to live up to or be better than. So with illimitable options, I chose the path of least resistance. It's sad, really.

As much as I preached about the power of literature and stories, I was woefully inept at finishing them. I only read one, yes one, assigned book in high school. I got so caught up in The Scarlet Letter that I stayed up late and finished it, as if that excitement makes my pity perusing habits any better. In college I wish I could say my habits improved, but most of my research papers revolved around books I had already read several times (Fahrenheit 451, 2 papers; Waiting for Godot, 5 papers). I read Silence and Blindness and House Behind the Cedars and yes folks, that is it for the books I read cover to cover when I was supposed to. Many I read 3/4 of but most were just skimmed over quickly (I also have a great talent for skimming.). I have only recently turned back to my neglected bookshelves to assiduously plow onward. I've had several delayed "Aha!" moments while reading. After reading, really reading this time, Life of Pi, I thought "Oh! So that's why Dr. Rankin wanted us to read it." I'll say it again, it's sad, really. At least these revelations are coming later rather than not at all.
It's embarrassing to say that I graduated with an BA in English, and I think I should feel ashamed. Instead of learning the satisfaction of hard work and dedication, I learned to be an excellent guesser. I learned to be shrewd and conniving. I learned to read into the questions and the answers choices on a test and discover patterns within classes and teachers. I learned to listen to other student's comments not with an open mind, but one that was sifting and calculating a response that could cast me in an advantageous "I've read this book and understand it" light. My degree feels falsified.

I know I can't be alone. I saw other students with the same hurried look, flipping pages as quickly as humanely possible without ripping them from the spine. I saw the look of anguish turned relief when a professor asked a question that was actually about the part you read. I remember the boasting, "I didn't open this until last night," "I only read 'til the 4th chapter," and "Wikipeida had a great summary." I should start a support group, just so we know we are not alone. We can all feel ashamed together. We can tend to our bruised egos and promise that next time, we'll be different. I'll bring muffins and french-pressed Colombian coffee and start the meeting by saying, "My name is Courtney, and I'm a mediocre student."

Most of my blog entries are dripping with solipsism, aren't they? I need to correct that.

Casserole of Courtney Thought

2009-04-24T01:38:00.005-05:00

So when I have neither the motivation nor the energy to create a cohesive blog post, I resort to lists.

-I have a story to tell, a story to write. It's not ready to spew but I can feel it bubbling under my breast and I'm impatient. One day.

-Six months from today I will be referred to thereafter as Mrs. Hernandez.

-Gift registry is not as excited as I always thought it would be. Who knew Bed Bath and Beyond had a Registry Specialist that would drag us around the store recited lines like "Where are you voyaging for your honeymoon? Have you considered new luggage," as he conveniently gestured to the section behind him. I also don't enjoy being admonished for my lack of "color coordination" and my instance that we really don't need or want hand towels.

-I'll admit it. I've watched the new Harry Potter trailer six times in the last two days. I have to divine some inspiration for my opening night costume, duh.

-Why do people feel it's necessary to clarify what they are ordering to drink and what they are ordering to eat? Tonight, a gent said, "Well, to eat I am having...and to drink..." I'm perfectly capable of discerning that you do not want to drink your bacon cheeseburger.

Life is a game and true love is a trophy.

2009-04-08T15:06:00.006-05:00

I try to convince myself that I am not a delicate female. I'm a feminist. A liberated woman. There are decades, nay, even centuries, between my kerchief-waving, corset-wearing, side-saddle riding, prone to faint and get the vapors ancestors. Right? I do own three aprons. And I like to knit. When I cook a meal for Ben and myself, there is a part of me that flutters when he says, "Mmm, this is good, Courtney." These feminine bits of me I have come to terms with. Perhaps I'm predisposed to like/be good at cooking but I genuinely enjoy it and being able to CHOOSE what I enjoy IS feminism. But it's the things I can't change, or at least have thus far been unable to quell that I can't get past. I'm a blusher. It would be acceptable if I only turned fire engine red when I was embarrassed but it happens all the time. If I am put on the spot by a teacher or have to argue a point in class I can feel the heat pulse from my cheeks. I don't mind answering; I like class discussion, but I hate that the class can see my fuchsia face and might assume that I'm embarrassed. This, triggers only more rushing blood. If I am being reprimanded for anything, my face flushes and, as an added bonus, my eyes start to well up with tears. Usually, if I have always been on good terms with my boss/superior the teary situation is exacerbated. (i.e. Shmunington Shmearning Shmenter) This isn't always on my mind, just when I have a particular bad case of the "girls."

A repairman from TimeWarner cable came to our apartment today to fix our cable box. I drove out to Mesquite yesterday to get a replacement box because the alternative was to wait two weeks for a repairman to come to our door. Well, we plugged it in and the signal was not going through so we call customer service. Whatever "guidance" they offered on the phone was insufficient so we made an appointment for today. Frustration #1: Why the hell would they say it takes two weeks and when we call to have it checked, a next day slot is suddenly available? Frustration #2: Although we SPECIFICALLY told the technician to call my number, he calls Jeff (who is at work, thus not at home) and says because there is no available parking he is leaving and will see if he has time later to come back. Frustration #4: Obviously annoyed, his response to my friendly "Hi, thanks so much for coming out!" when I let him in the front door is "Yeah, I hope you got it plugged in right or this is fifty bucks." Frustration #5: Upon his discovery of the cable box he says, "Oh, well lookie here. This is plugged in wrong. Surprise. Surprise." Frustration #6: When I tried to ask him why customer service would not ask if we had it plugged in correctly (because they ask if it is plugged in and obviously assume, correctly, that we know very little about cable boxes) he cut me off and spat, "You pick up the box and you assume all liability." Frustration #7: I snapped a favorite rubber hair band in half I was so angry. Frustration #8: His parting words were, "Next time, let us do this so we don't have to deal with all this."

Jack. Ass.

But the most frustrating part about my encounter with the cableman was that I actually got my feelings hurt and cried. Yes, I cried. I couldn't help it. Big, salty globs all over my red cheeks. I have always been resentful for being made this way. Why couldn't I have thicker skin? Writing this now, I feel puerile for being so upset, but this is who I am and I'm stuck with me. Getting ready to embark into my marriage, I am learning to appreciate the differences between Ben and me. He's teaching me to be more thoughtful and aware of my surroundings, to be more productive and timely, and to refuse to let anyone else take responsibility for my choices/life course. He molds me by simply being Ben. His inherent qualities mimic my numerous deficiencies and visa versa. I'm glad that he is different than I. Reluctantly, I am learning to accept who I am.

I am a girl. A girl that cries.

Easy as AB_

2009-04-07T01:34:00.001-05:00

One of the keys on my laptop is refusing to work. Let's see if I am able write this entire entry without using it, AND if you are able to figure out which key it is...

Things I've thought about this week:

-I would make a horrendous DJ. When I hear a song that I like, I listen to it over, and over, and over again. It's a borderline obsession. My iPod says "My Girls" has been played 36 times in the last four days. I may need professional help.

-I HATE the Sunshine State's tourism ad with Arnold. Really? You really had him say "I'll be back?" Really? Ugh.

-I have a new least favorite word. Slurry. Ew. I have several theories for my aversion. One: The first syllable reminds me of "slug." Two: The word is always said while a gummy, loosely gelatinous liquid sloshes around on in a bowl or vat. Three: The liquid is usually an unnatural shade and/or has small globules floating in it. Four: The more disgusting the slurry, the more likely it will turn into something I eat on a regular basis.

Okay, I give up. Writing and maintaining my normal onlineness with a 25 letter alphabet is harder than I thought. Markedly, when the key is a letter that is in EVERY SINGLE ONE of my usernames or passwords. My new keyboard is in the mail and hopefully will be in my mailbox soon. Then ourtney's omputer an finally be ompletely normal again.

2009-03-31T23:48:00.002-05:00

My dear friend, Martha Stewart, taught me that when making crepes, no matter how skillful the cook, that first ladle into the skillet will yield a sub-par product: either the pan will be too hot or too cold, the ladle-full too much or too little, or the batter too wet or too dry. But, it is only after that first failed crepe that the cook can make the proper adjustments that ensure the rest of the batch will be great.

So that's my allegory. Yes, it has been a long time. But after this brief entry, hopefully I'll be able to be more prodigious.

The past few days have confirmed my suspicions that I am, indeed, an adult. Ben bought a washer and dryer and I find myself bragging about it. I like to watch HGTV's "Property Virgins" and mock the couples with Ben believing that we wouldn't make good candidates because we were too knowledgeable. I now own five wedding magazines. Ugh, I'm a grown up. Sorta.

There IS such a thing as a stupid question.

2009-02-18T09:25:00.004-06:00

I don't know what it has been about the month of February, but I have been repeatedly asked some of the dumbest questions by guests in my restaurant. This Sunday, a dude rushes in the restaurant in a tizzy, grabs my arm to get my attention WHILE I'm taking an order from a table and asks, "Is this Dallas?" A few nights earlier, after a cursory examination of our menu, a gentleman looked up and earnestly asked, "How big is the Snookies' 1/2 lb Cheeseburger?" I paused, hoping that he would think about what he just said before I was obliged to reply, "Half a pound." The same night, another table asked me what MKT stood for on our menus. This isn't a stupid question, and I didn't mind answering. "It stands for 'market price.' Our cakes are 3.75 a slice." He asked another non-stupid question. "What kind do you have." "Chocolate or Coconut." But then, he proceeded to ask, "What kind of Chocolate Cake?" "Well," I said, "it's chocolate." "Yeah but what kind of Chocolate Cake?" "Chocolate cake with chocolate icing." After this explanation, he became frustrated and shooed me away with a flick of his wrist. Was I being a bit of a smartass? Yes. But isn't the definition of insanity to repeat the same question/act and expect a different result? I still don't know what he expected me to say. Our restaurant is obviously a hole-in-the-wall sort of joint; chocolate cake with chocolate icing is about as fancy as we get.
I am also boggled when people are offended when I offer certain menu items. In A-town, the God-fearing population would be aghast with each casual offer of wine. "Oh, we don't drink," was the common response. The bar shift on Sunday mornings, which in any other city is a huge money maker, was the punishment shift if any bartender pissed off a manger. No matter how hard the hostess tried, table after church-going table would refuse to sit in our bar just because it was Sunday morning. Oh people.

On a somewhat unrelated note, the newspaper dispenser outside Snookies is my new arch-enemy. It ate two dollars worth of my quarters this morning and then proceeded to eat the twelve additional quarters my manger tried. Now, I have always been this dispenser defender. I shame my co-workers into paying for each and every paper they take out and refuse to be a party to the 2 for 1 paper discount. IN FACT, I will usually walk outside and pay the difference because I feel guilty. I get made fun of a lot for that. So that dispenser needs to watch its back because the next time I can get in, I am taking every single Dallas-Morning News that is there.

The bandwagon was too full on facebook.

2009-02-03T09:37:00.000-06:00

I have spent a large part of my week reading people's "25 Things" lists and although I know I'm fooling myself if I believe that listing this here is any less bombastic than it would be on facebook, I'm doing it anyway.

1. I love reading other people's blogs and facebook pages, even if we are just casual acquaintances. I am endlessly fascinated by people: who they are, what they deem eventful enough to write an entry about, what frustrates them, what elates them, etc... Chances are if you barely know me and are reading this, I'm reading your blog. I know, it sounds creepy, right?

2. I am ready to be married: one-hundred percent, no cold feet, wish it were tomorrow not eight months away ready.

3. Whenever I listen to instrumental music, I pick an instrument to focus on and daydream that I'm the one playing. I can't listen to instrumental music while I fall asleep because in order to fall asleep I have to listen to the same song multiple times so I can play all the different instruments.

4. As a child I HATED soda. I could only drink orange Fanta and even then only after I let it sit out on the counter for a few hours and become flat. I always regret training my palette out of its natural taste.

5. I also HATE ordering all my salads with their dressing on the side because I'm afraid the waitstaff will think I'm trying to count calories when in reality I really just hate lots of dressing and prefer my salads practically dry. I also am offending when Wendy's drive-thru employees give me a Diet Coke instead of a Dr. Pepper because I despise looking like the type of girl who would order a Diet Coke.

6. Six has always been my favorite number. I think my love of the numeral started in kindergarten when we were learning how to write each number. I just loved its swirl. A year later at church, I learned that Satan's number was 666 and was beset with an awful guilty feeling since six was my favorite number too. However, I decided that God must have known that I liked six before I knew anything about Satan's involvement, and that He wouldn't hold me accountable for things I couldn't know about.

7. One year at Kadesh during the evening praise time in the amphitheatre, God spoke audibly to me. He told me to stop watching X-Files.

8. I honestly believe in Bigfoot. Really.

9. During the most vivid dream I can ever remember having, I slit my own throat to save my friends (I had just been bitten by a zombie and was about to turn into one.) and died. I woke up from the dream the instant that I "died," panting for breath. Needless to say, it took me awhile to fall back asleep.

10. Also in my dreams, I experience pain and can taste and feel things strongly enough to describe the sensations in detail the next morning. Because of that, I have always been fascinated with dreams.

11. I believe that a universal and unbiased yardstick for the character of a stranger is how he/she treats the waitstaff.

12. Secretly, I wish I could be a singer and I hate the false hope my mother's compliments bring.

13. I'm ecstatic to go back and get my masters but I'm also terrified. I sometimes feel as though I tricked my professors into passing me and often don't feel capable to engage in deep literary discussions.

14. I regret the cursory approach I took regarding my past education and am scared it is a habit I can not easily break.

15. I never sucked on my thumb as a child; I sucked my wrist.

16. I sometimes worry that the Varner gene pool will see to it that I give birth to no little girls and only boys.

17. Although I have seen it a countless number of times, "The Little Princess" will always make me cry.

18. I thought I had discovered dinosaur bones in our backyard when I was six. I was incredibly disappointed to learn they were only tree roots.

19. I used to watched the home movies of my childhood so often that my parents hid them.

20. Although it used to be my favorite pastime, I hate sleeping until noon. I feel like my whole day is wasted and am usually cranky for the rest my waking hours.

21. The night before Ben proposed to me, I had a dream about becoming engaged.

22. I have often wished I was Catholic. I like all the traditions and liturgy. The C of C has a great dearth of both.

23. Whenever I take naps I practice lucid dreaming. Being able to control my dreams has to be the coolest thing I've ever learned to do.

24. My proudest accomplishment to date is reading my short story about Mr. Monroe as my last Creative Endeavor.

25. In third grade I practiced for hours training my left fingers to make the Vulcan symbol.

CMH

2009-01-26T16:46:00.010-06:00

So...I got engaged...two weeks ago. Eek!

In school, it seemed as though every year there was always a class assignment that required us students to make a list of goals. In elementary school, my list started out very long and very outlandish. I wanted to be a scuba diver (until I learned about sea worms), a doctor (until I learned about tapeworms), a veterinarian (until I learned about heart worms), an explorer (until I learned about grubs), and an actress: mind you, simultaneously. In middle school I started to narrow my horizons; it's easier to excel at one skill, rather than dabble in many. Sixth grade I would be a classically trained jazz flautist, seventh grade I would be a prolific and best-selling author, and in eighth a skillful award-winning actress. My goal list shifted again in high school. Professions were not on the top of list but rather varied feats I thought were more "realistic." Classics include: walking the entire Wall of China, visiting every continent (even Antarctica), writing and publishing one novel, and becoming an FBI agent.
It never failed; on each of these lists, getting married was absent. Sometimes "be a mom" would appear on the list but each time the other girls in my class read their lists aloud and "get married" was said I always thought, "Oh! I forgot that one!" I always assumed one day I'd get around to it, but figured my younger siblings would beat me to the altar. I remember deciding that of my high school friends I would be one of the last to get hitched. Now here I am, one of the first of my close high school AND college friends preparing to walk down the aisle. Planning my wedding is an elating but surreal feeling. I could not be any happier with this new addition to my life's todo list.
And on a final note: VISIT OUR WEBSITE!

Knit one, purl two

2009-01-07T00:16:00.006-06:00

My tutoring center is located in the corner nook of a shopping center between Whole Foods and Joann's Craft Store. Often during a break between students, I wander over to Whole Foods and walk aimlessly through the aisles reading nutrition labels and looking for free samples, usually to no avail. I am at a loss for why the Whole Foods in Highland Park (the store down the street from my apartment) is replete with free samples and wine gurus pestering me to taste their latest pairing while the one near my work is devoid of both. I guess it's some grand scheme to keep people like me from taking up precious space in the cramped aisles. Whatever Whole Foods on Forest, get over yourself. Since Whole Foods obviously does not want me in its store unless I am buying something (like it thinks it's some kind of profit-based store or something) I started wandering around the store where the employees seem elated each time someone under the half century mark enters--Joann's.

Oh Joann's Fabric and Craft Store how I love thee. I first entered several months ago to buy yarn for a scarf I knit Jeremy for Christmas and there hasn't been a week, save the ones I've been out of town, that I haven't been in. Meandering through Joann's has rekindled the crafty bits in me. For example, I started knitting again. I finally progressed to something more complicated than scarves because really, you can only have so many scarves when you live on the blistering plains of Texas. I knit the first hat that I actually wear in public and yesterday I spent 45, yes 45, minutes picking out yarn. I also joined an online knitting community. (I know, I'm an 80 year old woman, you don't have to tell me.) After giving up flute in the 8th grade, I am determined to keep a skill/talent relevant in my life for more than just a few years. Thanks to Joann's proximity to work, I think knitting has decided it's up for the challenge.

As Matt would say, "This picture is so emo." Yeah, yeah. I like my hat. And I made it. All by myself.

It's Been a Hard Day's Night

2008-12-04T01:07:00.006-06:00

Things I learned today:

-That when the air-raid/tornado sirens across the street wake me up in a panic the world is not ending nor is it being overtaken by zombies. Apparently the system is checked the first Wednesday of every month, although this morning was the first time I have ever heard in the year I've lived here. My heart didn't stop its rapid palpitations for an hour.

-That I should check the labels more closely when I peruse the sales rack at Target. I tried a dress on and thought "Ugh, this dress makes me look pregnant, no wonder it's on sale." As I took it off with slightly lowered self-esteem I saw the tag, "Liza Lang Maternity"

-That employees who drink on their lunch break will often leave a more generous tip in an effort to displace their guilt.

-That taking a two hour nap at 10:30 at night is never helpful nor productive.

Omni-riffic

2008-11-25T22:59:00.007-06:00

Me: "I don't really eat much meat, huh?"

Ben: "That's why you poop like a deer."

These are the conversations Ben and I have.

In April of this year, Ben and I tried the pescetarian lifestyle for a month. We both had always been curious about living as vegetarians but realized after some cursory research the commitment was far to involved for our quick jaunt. The life of a vegetarian, I learned, requires carefully planned meals and constant vigilance to maintain a healthy vitamin and minerals levels. I gained respect for those that maintain the sans-meat lifestyle; it is one serious commitment. I also learned that vegans, who I have always found unnatural (how they think a slice of soy protein processed American "Cheese" is better for you than fresh, milky mozzarella is BEYOND me), have an even harder time maintaining their health; their life expectancy is the same as those with meat-centric diets. (Apparently, they just die from different things at the same rate.)

I had and have no political/humanitarian reason to stop eating meat and would certainly miss the occasional burger, but if I were to delineate my favorite foods, meat is nearly vacant from the list. See:

-Warm brie on a crisp granny smith apple or the latter with cream peanut butter and the former with really crusty, chewy bread.
-Caprese salad with firm, heirloom tomatoes and tangy balsamic vinegar.
-Dark chocolate with bits of orange rind mixed in.
-Red beans and rice, my mom's recipe of course with lots of added spice. Though it contains sausage my mom can testify that even when I was young I asked for my portion to not have any meat.
-Vegetarian chili without any of that tofu crumble nonsense. Really just the antithesis of Texas chili with lots of beans and vegetables.
-Spinach. Raw, steamed, boiled, sauteed I will eat it any way it can be cooked. Favorites include sauteed with garlic and spinach enchiladas.
-Ahi tuna, either raw with sushi or barely seared. And on that note, really any fish, raw or cooked I'll eat. I'm slightly obsessed.

So I like seafood too much and can never be a vegetarian. I share a diet similar to bears, Giant Pandas and hedgehogs... and I'm okay with that.

I Caught a Ride on the Dreamland Express

2008-11-23T12:52:00.010-06:00

Since I was a child I have always been obsessed with dreams. I often make my friends listen with feigned patience as I try to recall the salient details of each one the next day. However, per usual, I get distracted halfway through the story and drift off into a blank stare. It happens. Out the myriad of dreams I have been visited with over my lifetime, the ones that have stuck with me the most, those whose details remain sharp and emotions acute, are my nightmares. As I got older my nightmares began to change. Instead of being chased by dinosaurs who could breathe fire and travel through time (scary, right?), I was shoved on stage and told that "Duh, Courtney. Didn't you know you were in this scene?" even though I was certain I was just the spot operator. I didn't know terror, however, until the waitmares started.

I am certain everyone has some sort of perpetual nightmare concerning his or her occupation, but I will venture to suggest that the nightmares associated with the waiting profession are among the worst. The general theme of these nighttime illusions usually coincides with something I have been frustrated with at work. While working at Carinos, I would dream that large parties kept coming in and, despite my best efforts, I could not surpass the velocity of molasses. No matter how fast I tried to make drinks and take entrees out, there was always more people at the table than I was able to help. When I started bartending, the dreams evolved. Never-ending waves of drinks would spew out of my printer and I couldn't find any liquors or wines I needed. In fact in one variation, each time someone ordered wine I had to climb up a ladder behind the bar and get the bottles from the roof. (There have been ones with zombies too, but I refuse to dwell on those. Eek.)

There have only been a few times in life that I have ever had a stressful enough shift for it to be called a living waitmare. The most recent, and the worst, was my shift Saturday night at Snookies. The fates, with their obviously ironic sense of humor, ordained an epic catastrophe. Usually on Saturdays we're slow until the late night crowd stumbles in, so to keep the employees happy and making money our mangers decided to stagger waiter arrival times. I was the first; I came in at five and had two tables until six when the second person came in. Since the Tech/OU game was on at 7 and we are generally slow during games due to our proximity to the gaybourhood, I found the crossword and settled in for an uneventful few hours. Then it happened. I had four tables when our POS system crashed. It was more of an annoyance than a hindrance at the time. Everyone was cool. It's happens every now and again and takes fifteen minutes to reboot. But the system never came back up. And I got eight more tables. At the same time. And the bartender went MIA, apparently he was upstairs to try to fix the computers, while I was left searching for Amstel Light in one of our six coolers using a broken pen light. Because the computers were down, I had to not only hand write every order for the kitchen but recall the exact specifications of my prior tables orders (whose average tab was 50 bucks of 3 dollar drinks) so I could calculate tax on an old 9 key and slide credit cards on the knuckbuster. On one trip back to the kitchen, I saw my manager pounding numbers into the calculator screaming "You have GOT to be kidding me! WE KNOW PRIMO!!!! WE KNOW!" while the cook slammed his fist on the bell to signify the growing number of burgers drying out under the heat lamps and watch my co-worker Erin fumble with a tray on the verge of tears saying "Why do they need water! They already have Diet Cokes!"

Thankfully the chaos was relatively short-lived and normalcy was returned. However, I'm still drained. Though I enjoy the flexible lifestyle I'm allowed by waiting tables (i.e. tutoring part-time at Huntington), it's nights like Saturday spur me to search even harder for a "real" job. I'm tired of smelling like french fries and vodka and getting home at 2:30 AM every Saturday and Sunday.

With A Rebel Yell

2008-11-10T10:25:00.014-06:00

Today officially marks my move DFW. I have been a resident of Dallas County for one whole year now. Ben and I drove in from Austin late last night. We spent the weekend at FunFunFunFest, which was really a FunDustyAntBiteI'msurroundingbykidsthatlooklikeRuffioFest. A good time for sure, but a very disparate festival. Of course, going to any festival hosting an electronica, comedy/experimental, punk/hardcore, and alternative-esque stages, we shouldn't have expected anything less. It was odd, however, that the plastic 80s sunglasses count was the same as the studded jean jacket with an old t-shirt on the back count. Just to allay any doubt of the bizarro characters at the festival, take a gander at this Billy Idol look-a-like getting down to Toxic Avenger:

I have a video of this dude dancing that is even better, but my stupid computer isn't cooperating. You'll just have to imagine him pumping his arms like he's swimming the breaststroke to techno music. Also while in Austin I went to the Capital for the first time with Malinda. I missed out on so much Texas history by moving here in the seventh grade; I've had to spend the last twelve years catching up. While in the Capital I found some floor art that would have been even more fun to find as a fourth grader on tour with my classmates. I mean, I know it's Austin, but how could have someone overlooked that. Really.

Coming home the to sprawling metroplex is still surreal. When I was in college I swore I would NEVER live here, just like how I swore I would NEVER be a teacher when I was in high school. Lesson learned. There are actually quite a myriad of things I thought I would NEVER do and my year in Dallas has proven me wrong.

-I NEVER thought I would learn how to negotiate a rush hour without crying or crashing into a median/other cars.
-I NEVER thought Texas would be significant enough in ANY type of election, let alone the Democratic Primary, to justify candidates speaking within a one mile radius of where I watch Jon Stewart make fun of them.
-I NEVER thought I could be a sassy enough waitress to get called a smartass and get tipped extra for it.

I swear I had more but all the mud/snot that is in my sinus cavities must be hampering my didactic impulses. Hopefully some sleep will help expunge the funfunfundust. Thanks for reading Malinda, I had fun this weekend. COME VISIT ME. (And to conclude, some belated Barack and Roll Election Night celebration pictures)

Tell me anything you want, any old lie will do

2008-09-29T01:05:00.003-05:00

I wrote a review of a Fleet Foxes show for Silence Magazine (nepotism at its finest) and here it is...

http://asilenceproduction.com/wp/?p=296

Eight Days a Week

2008-08-21T02:36:00.000-05:00

Things I have done/experienced in the last week, none of which I deem enthralling enough to carry the weight of an entire post:

1) Realize that the 24 hour Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market around the corner locks its cash registrars between 11:45 and 12:00 to "count inventory" and a growing line of 20 people trying to buy beer/wine before the midnight cut-off can turn riotous.

2) Laugh because the "Eiffel Tower" in Paris, TX, has a sign asking patrons to not climb on it in English and Spanish, mais pas francais!

3) Succumb to the fact that after weeks of scorching heat vicious enough to inflict a sunburn on my left forearm because I drive north to work around 5 (true story), I need a jacket when the temperature drops to a chilly 84 degrees.

4) Discover, to my amazement, that "speed-walking" is a legitimate Olympic sport and that it can hold my attention for an hour and a half.

5) Learn the difference between "shift" and "shag" in Irish vernacular.

6) Decide that after his role in "Pineapple Express" and "Tropic Thunder," I will seriously consider seeing any movie with Danny McBride. Thug life.

7) Watch so many funny animals videos on Ben's account that when he logs on it recommends such gems as "<3LOL!! FUNNY KITTY! ;)."

Taco No Beuno

2008-08-04T00:41:00.000-05:00

I've been a die hard Taco Beuno fan since the moment a warm, pillowly muchaco touched my lips in the seventh grade. However, my idolatry of this institution ended today.

I stood rocking back and forth on my heels three feet away from the cashier like always. Per usual, my head was cocked upwards, reading the menu I already know by heart, entertaining the fleeting thought of changing my regular order in favor of some new menu rollout item. Strolling up to the counter I recited the order I know by rote, "A Number Three, please, with a Dr. Pepper." After picking up my order I first noticed a change. Tortilla chips, which didn't appear to be fried , littered my Mexi Dips and Chips. I get it. Baked Lays are all the rage. Bureaucrats are banning trans fats and bed wetting left and right. It's posche. But they tasted like shaved cardboard. However, I tried to look on the bright side. Ultimately, they are only a vehicle for the Mexi Dips and their lack of taste is easily ignorable. Also, I knew I woudn't miss the occasionaly order whose chips still had a chunk of gelintious lard attached. I could have handled that. Then I took a bite out of my muchaco. Instead of cheddar, thick, clumsy wisps of American processed cheese sat inside, not melting but rather turning back into the vegatable oil from whence they came. Bleck.

I'm no food critic but I can taste the difference Beuno, and it is SO NOT COOL.

Bad Blood

2008-07-26T16:46:00.000-05:00

I miss the X-Files in its glory days. I've already expunged my frustration with the most recent addition to Chris Carter's franchise enough so I won't worry anyone's patience with a review...

I feel like a huge firecracker who instead of igniting the instant my twisting fuse reaches me, I pause, contemplating whether or not to accept the flame only to pause too long and instead of exploding into a million glittering pieces, fall over on my side and groan a pathetic "Pfffssssssss" before being doused with cold water to prevent any further combustion. I've been told, by more than one person, that I am the epitome of contentment. I realizing now that if there is not some seed of malaise bubbling under my breast there is no hope for change, trivial or otherwise. I only moved to Dallas after a year of "contentment" in Abilene. I still wait tables, I job I don't really despise, but just happen to do. I don't need someone to light a fire under my ass. I need a scorching apocalyptic bonfire.

I'll believe in anything, and you'll believe in anything.

2008-07-25T00:20:00.002-05:00

The hazy byproduct of Parliament Lights and hash burned my eyes as the blue and red lights spiraled towards the audience. Next to me, a ratty haired girl flayed fervently as though this was a Baptist tent revival. Her limp arms writhed above her head like tentacles. The cigarette precariously clasped between her fingers swished in figure eights next to the flammable heads of her neighbors. When her bouncing head lost the rhythm she turned to her partner and with her hands on his shoulders slowly steadied herself before bursting out on her own again. I stood inconspicuously in the dense crowd of fillets and distressed tees and tried to look melancholy enough to fit in. This, I thought to myself, is what I missed out on growing up in small towns, unable to go to concerts. The gaping chasm in my youth was caused by the unavailability of ANY venues for me to frequent other than Beltway Baptist that hosted Christ-centered musicians. Let me put this into perspective for you.

It's a balmy Sunday evening in 1993, and my mother is fighting with my sister and me because we want to wear shorts, not jeans. Mom says it would be simply too immodest to show mine nine year-old knees in the church, even if it's not Sunday morning. I say it's hot outside and the preacher's daughter gets to wear shorts. Mom rolls her eyes, a sure indicator that has lost patience in pretending I had any say in the matter to begin with. An hour later I am sitting on a pew in Seventh and Beech Church of Christ surrounded by scabby kneecaps. The auditorium has been rearranged since this morning. The preacher's podium and communion table are pushed against the wall and the plastic greenery that usually adorns the baptismal tank is missing. In their place are microphones with coils of black wire snaked unused on the floor. The youth pastor says a few words of introduction not bothering with a microphone since the pews are only 25 deep. Accapella then rises from the front pew and begins my first concert. Not even the rousing rendition of "Roll That Stone Away" moves the sober church members to clap. The display of such emotion in this Church of Christ would be met with only disapproval and at the time I was no trend setter.

So that was it: no dimmed lightbeams highlighted by an overactive fog machine, no eardrum piercing shrieks of joy from the girl I didn't know was right behind me, no hyperactive fan trying singlehandedly to start a clapping rhythm, and no sore calves from standing on my toes to see over the multitude of tall people gathered in front of me. I'm slowly adjusting my new concert ventures.