Ok, so I thought that since Justin T. decided to bring sexy back, I ought to at least TRY to contribute to his cause. Tonight is New Years Eve and as I am actually going out for once, I should at least wear something sparkly, show a little (or a fair amount of) cleavage, or find some sick looking stilettos to wear with my jeans and a great top. (Yes, friends, this is definitely a departure from tree climbing Ginger who never realized that she had a figure... until that day at the high school swim party when she wore her first bikini... then everyone knew that something might actually be possible in that area... so she immediately hid it away (but that's a different horror story.)) Anyway, my thought process was this: "I bet there are still tons of after-Christmas sales going on at the mall. - I have a Dillard's gift card that I need to use. - With a sale and a gift card, I might be able to afford something at Dillard's for once. - - - I'm going." And I went.
As I drove toward capitalist Mecca a.k.a. The Parks Mall, I noticed that the parking lot wasn't as crowded as I thought it might be.
Cool.
I parked near Dillard's, got out of the car, walked towards the glass double doors, mindfully paused to breathe, checked that I was donning my Buddhist half-smile, and entered the first level of Dante's Inferno.
I know I'm a smart girl. At least, I work really hard at being a smart girl. I study constantly and am a reading snob. I travel as much as I can to broaden my world view. I sip Merlot, eat "shtuff" that you spread on crackers, and participate at the Dallas Institute specifically to challenge my intellect. I tried being a vegetarian for a week (and hated it, but the point is I made an informed decision). I drink coffee because it smells intelligent. So what in the HELL was I thinking?
Here's what happened:
Immediately, I went to what I consider the "Euro Chic" section: trendy, sparkly clothes - New Year's clothes that I probably won't fit into (because apparently, American department stores think that size 2 is average even though we are all grossly and piggishly overweight according to the media). I did find some cute items, but 50% off of these is still $100.00. No can do. Still, I have my zen-worthy half-smile. I'm fat and zen. Everything is OK.
I thought that maybe I should just brush off the cute top idea and stick to shoes. I went directly to the shoe department where people were turning around into each other because it was so crowded, and employees were sighing in the back room loudly enough for all of us to hear over the Keane playing on the loud speaker (and for the record, I DO NOT begrudge them their sighs!). I tried on a couple of pairs of shoes, decided that I needed to figure out what I was wearing before I bought shoes.. so I went back to the EC section upstairs.
Oh yeah. I can't afford or fit into clothes in the EC section. Damn it! OK, breathe. Quarter-smile in place... Before I left the EC section, I did run into a delightful woman who was wearing one of those earpieces that was originally intended for the Secret Service but which everyone who's anyone has (except for me because I don't want to look like I'm talking to myself). This woman was extremely animated. I picked up on the fact that she wanted to return something without a receipt - something that was purchased six months ago - and the woman, "could remember (in a very loud voice), the exact day that this article of clothing was bought, specifically as a Christmas gift!!!" The poor clerk was pleading with the woman in the most polite way she could. She was sorry, but without a receipt, there was nothing she could do, especially since she didn't recognize that article of clothing. This received the overrated and overused, "I want to speak to your manager!" from the shopper. Worried for my own well being, I left, quarter-smile fading.
I decided, against my better judgement, to try Express. From a distance, I could see the 60% off sign. I did not have a gift certificate for Express, but surely 60% off was a beacon of light. The second I entered, I realized that I wasn't actually in a clothing store but at a feeding trough for very thin barnyard animals. Seriously, there were bins marked small and medium (because, again, real American women don't wear more than a size 6(!)) and I was pushed and bumped out of the way. (sigh)
Retreat!!! Raise the white flag!!! Flee! Flee! Flee!!!
To make a very long story short: I ran away from capitalist Mecca, hands empty and with any notion of a zen-smile deflated, fighting thoughts that, at size 8, I am NOT huge, and that I will find something in my closet other than sweats to wear to our New Years party...
Last thought: Don't be an ass. Be nice to store clerks and STOP (for Christ's sake) pushing folks out of the way. You'll want the new spring line (that stores will put out tomorrow) more than anything you bought today anyway.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Naomi Shihab-Nye
I love this poet and am extremely lucky in that she is coming to speak at our school next semester. Naomi Shihab-Nye is an Arab-American; her father is Palestinian and her mother is American. She is probably most known for her "Open Letter to Any Would-be Terrorists". Shihab-Nye is so gentle and lovely in her writing. I highly recommend her to anyone interested in peace and eloquence.
Making a Fist
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Making a Fist
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
"Hey, do you like cats?"
So, I'm standing outside of the car which is parked in a much coveted parking spot right out in front of the QT or Racetrack or Love's or one of the other many truck stops/gas stations somewhere in the middle of nowhere (in one of the states between the lone star and an other) in the middle of the night, probably around 2:00 am. As I yawn, stretch, and think about how to make my nest in the back seat more sleep-friendly, a lady in the car next to me cracks her car window a smidge and whispers to me, "Hey, do you like cats?" As I am fumbling for a response, the lady gets out of the car (stranger danger!) and stands before me.
OK, I am by no means gorgeous, so when I say this, it is not meant to be anything other than an observation - but this is the type of woman one might see on a 60 Minutes segment, an exclusive called "Truck Stop Bambi: Working for Love." I can say that she definitely has impressive, abundant cleavage; it is such that even when I look away, it still leaves an impression. The corner of her mouth is home to a cigarette that needed to be ashed 5 minutes ago, the grey residue balancing precariously on the tip of the filter, and I want very desperately to call her Lurleen. I do notice (as time, in my mind, is standing still for this observation and I am not at all awkwardly displaying my thoughts through my poker faced countenance) that she is sincere in the question, and thus repeats it to me as if I were autistic.
I manage to squeak out "Yes, I do like cats, but I am a long way from home..."(Lurleen is already opening her backseat, driver's side car door.) She pulls out a tiny, grey, adorably smush-faced kitten and begins telling me a story - something about finding him on a shelf at Home Depot... he reminded her of Batman... name is Brucee.. and something about a make-shift litter box...
I am half-listening as she holds the cat out for me to pet, her cigarette ash flaking a little onto the cat's head (a little red-neck dandruff). I am thinking, "What sort of scam is this? Is someone stealing our car as she has me distracted? If I pet the cat, will I get a disease? Am I ready to work for love? or was it love for work? I still haven't finished the grading for last semester..."
About that time my mom and husband walk up, freshley powdered and coffeed. They get the same scoop, as if the spiel was rewound and replayed (like some sort of rip in space-time). In conjunction, Lurleen prepares a make-shift litter box for Brucee, right behind the wheel of our back tire. Relax - don't be gory -It just means that we knew we would be there a while.
Fortunately for us, Lurleen apparently does not receive the desired response from us about her Home Depot, surrogate mother, breast suffocating cat story. She decides she needs something from inside the convenient store and puts Brucee and the litter back into her car. As we finally back out of our parking space at 2:30 (!) am, we see Lurleen dragging two tired, befuddled people out of the convenient store (by the hands) to her backseat, driver's side car door.
I can't be certain, and I am not a lip reader, but I am pretty sure she was asking them, "Hey, do you like cats?"
What do you make of that? (There is a circus in my brain.)
OK, I am by no means gorgeous, so when I say this, it is not meant to be anything other than an observation - but this is the type of woman one might see on a 60 Minutes segment, an exclusive called "Truck Stop Bambi: Working for Love." I can say that she definitely has impressive, abundant cleavage; it is such that even when I look away, it still leaves an impression. The corner of her mouth is home to a cigarette that needed to be ashed 5 minutes ago, the grey residue balancing precariously on the tip of the filter, and I want very desperately to call her Lurleen. I do notice (as time, in my mind, is standing still for this observation and I am not at all awkwardly displaying my thoughts through my poker faced countenance) that she is sincere in the question, and thus repeats it to me as if I were autistic.
I manage to squeak out "Yes, I do like cats, but I am a long way from home..."(Lurleen is already opening her backseat, driver's side car door.) She pulls out a tiny, grey, adorably smush-faced kitten and begins telling me a story - something about finding him on a shelf at Home Depot... he reminded her of Batman... name is Brucee.. and something about a make-shift litter box...
I am half-listening as she holds the cat out for me to pet, her cigarette ash flaking a little onto the cat's head (a little red-neck dandruff). I am thinking, "What sort of scam is this? Is someone stealing our car as she has me distracted? If I pet the cat, will I get a disease? Am I ready to work for love? or was it love for work? I still haven't finished the grading for last semester..."
About that time my mom and husband walk up, freshley powdered and coffeed. They get the same scoop, as if the spiel was rewound and replayed (like some sort of rip in space-time). In conjunction, Lurleen prepares a make-shift litter box for Brucee, right behind the wheel of our back tire. Relax - don't be gory -It just means that we knew we would be there a while.
Fortunately for us, Lurleen apparently does not receive the desired response from us about her Home Depot, surrogate mother, breast suffocating cat story. She decides she needs something from inside the convenient store and puts Brucee and the litter back into her car. As we finally back out of our parking space at 2:30 (!) am, we see Lurleen dragging two tired, befuddled people out of the convenient store (by the hands) to her backseat, driver's side car door.
I can't be certain, and I am not a lip reader, but I am pretty sure she was asking them, "Hey, do you like cats?"
What do you make of that? (There is a circus in my brain.)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Scholastic Press Association at Columbia University just announced the Crown Award finalists for this year. I'm thrilled (and proud) to say that In The Margins made the final cut in the competition and we are guaranteed either a silver or a gold crown award. This is an amazing accomplishment for my staff! What a brilliant recognition! (And we are the only public school in Texas to receive this nod.)
Yay, you stealthy pirate ninjas, what with all of your amazing litmagination!!! Now. How do we get to NYC to pick up our award....(?) Suggestions?
Here's a glimpse of the winning mag :
cover design Patrick H. (design editor 2005-06)
design by Parker J. (design editor /co-editor-in-chief 2006-07)
design by Ian M.
design by Julia C. (editor-in-chief 2005-06)
design by (I can't remember, but I LOVE this spread!)
design by Neal M.
design by Patrick H.
(sorry about the poor picture quality... it doesn't do the mag justice!)
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Another instance that demonstrates the fact that incompetence gets the promotion
A response to Time Magazine for picking us, the American people, for person of the year:
"American people, you should be ashamed! The president went and bit off a big piece of the Middle East and, like an eagle, brought it back to the nest and he's regurgitating it back into your mouths! Why won’t you swallow?!!
When history looks back at the actions of this president and the decisions he made regarding this war, you will go down as the most incompetent American people of all time. Deal with it!" ---Stephen Colbert
Lifted from The Daily Kos
And also, go here for an interesting debate in the same thread.
"American people, you should be ashamed! The president went and bit off a big piece of the Middle East and, like an eagle, brought it back to the nest and he's regurgitating it back into your mouths! Why won’t you swallow?!!
When history looks back at the actions of this president and the decisions he made regarding this war, you will go down as the most incompetent American people of all time. Deal with it!" ---Stephen Colbert
Lifted from The Daily Kos
And also, go here for an interesting debate in the same thread.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Caulking a Habitat
So, I'm tired of constantly bitching about the state of the world, playing at philosophy, and fencing over politics ("No Dartanian. This is completely unacceptable. If you say one more thing about the bullies of the West, then I'll... Well, I'll just lightly slap your cheek with my glove,...you!" and something about an impotent epee).
(sigh)
I am constantly preaching about acting - actually getting my hands dirty-instead of talking, but that's it. I preach it and then beat the hell out of myself for not actually going out and doing. In Candide, Voltaire says that we, all mankind, should go and WORK in the garden -a metaphor for our world- in order to cure humanity's greatest vices and in order to live fruitful, fulfilling lives. (oops philosophy!)
I actually and finally(!) listened to myself and to Voltaire (or at least I found time during the holiday break to listen) and signed up for Habitat for Humanity with some of my co-workers/friends. Unbeknownst to me, my sister twin also signed-up, so we decided to bring our significant others and make an event of it.
Here's how it went down:
The morning arrived sooner than we anticipated (at exactly 5 freaking o'clock), but we got-up and got dressed in our clever, clever t-shirts:
(sigh)
I am constantly preaching about acting - actually getting my hands dirty-instead of talking, but that's it. I preach it and then beat the hell out of myself for not actually going out and doing. In Candide, Voltaire says that we, all mankind, should go and WORK in the garden -a metaphor for our world- in order to cure humanity's greatest vices and in order to live fruitful, fulfilling lives. (oops philosophy!)
I actually and finally(!) listened to myself and to Voltaire (or at least I found time during the holiday break to listen) and signed up for Habitat for Humanity with some of my co-workers/friends. Unbeknownst to me, my sister twin also signed-up, so we decided to bring our significant others and make an event of it.
Here's how it went down:
The morning arrived sooner than we anticipated (at exactly 5 freaking o'clock), but we got-up and got dressed in our clever, clever t-shirts:
(Believe me, this was the most PG idea we had for our slogan. You try using the word caulk in a clever way, and you'll quickly see the dilemma)
Then we went for a Burger King breakfast and headed to the habitat. There we met some sincerely genuine people - ones who make it their life goal to act instead of talk. I learned a lot of practical tidbits today: Sodding is harder than it looks (another slew of clever t- shirt slogans come to mind);
painting while balancing on a roof is not as difficult as painting with the back of your head, using your fine, baby soft hair as a paint brush; window cleaning when the wind is blowing can create a unique art medium, full wheelbarrows work better if you run with them in a chaotic, serpentine/zig -zag manner; machetes - well, you should just get out of the way of a person wielding one; etc.
Mostly, though, I was reminded about doing good deeds outside of my comfort zone. Also, people are good, people are good, people are good, and the world is made up of good people.
I have to do this more often. And so should you...
Bonus pics:
Here's Fougs working in the the garden, literally and figuratively
The cocky caulky bastards
Me, tired, but in a good way.
Friday, December 15, 2006
What's a cair paravel?
I totally stole this from this one girl's myspace... Fortunately, this girl is a 53 year old cair paravel from Norfolk Island who listens to Regina Spektor (...but it breaks my heart), so she'll forgive me for intruding (stealing), I'm sure. If not, I'll tell her friend - the 77 year old matron, "I got your who and whom," grammar shark from Uzbekistan! That'll set the island girl straight...or will at least correct her angry, exclamatory declarations, as the Uzbek does mine.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
ok go
Ok Go is one of those bands that I think is hilarious and exceedingly entertaining, yet I don't have any of their stuff. I think this video alone (re-introduced to me by Happy Fun Pants) is worth buying the CD. Also check out the Dancing in the Backyard video. I couldn't have choreographed anything more beautiful...
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