Saturday, December 31, 2011


     Goodbye 2011, hello 2012.  My top 10 from the last year:

1.  Winning first place in the Nonfiction Category of Writers' League of Texas Manuscript Contest and flying down to Austin to meet with a literary agent 

2.  Taking a micro cassette recorder to India to record my grandma telling stories

3.  Going to Lake Austin Spa with my sister

4.  Getting an awesome new job...and still liking it months later

5.  Seeing President Obama speak live in D.C.

6.  Running the Warrior Dash and finishing it, not like the Spartan Race where I fell

7.  My Mr. Peanut Costume care of my good friend

8.  Getting back in touch with long time Albuquerque friend

9.  It's a toss up between flying on the company jet and getting to go see 3 Cowboys games in the company suite, which is on the field

10.  Going to Graceland and finally seeing what all the fuss about the Jungle Room is--for the record you don't actually get to step on the green shag carpet, it's roped off    

Friday, December 30, 2011


     You learn some weird stuff about your parents when you go to lunch with friends of theirs.  Or I do at least.  On this day, I went to lunch with a couple my parents used to hang out with, among a huge group of friends, in Ohio 40 years ago.
     My parents and their friends had parties or went out every weekend.  The woman of the couple told me that they'd go out and stay out so late on Saturday nights that they'd all sleep until 2pm on Sunday.  Then they'd call each other and meet for brunch or lunch or I guess sometimes dinner since it'd be so late.    
     Apparently my parents and their friends frequented the Playboy Club.  The couples' daughters and grandkids were at lunch too and were horrified when their mom shared this information.  One daughter leaned over and said to me "it's so embarrassing when your mom tells a whole table that she went to a place like that."  I looked at her and said "well, she's saying my mom went there too, so I feel your pain."  
     Actually, I'm not embarrassed.  I knew my parents went out a lot, had fun and had amazing friends.  Sometimes I think of them as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, 50 years later.  I'd expect nothing more than them going to trendy fun and cool places and if one of those places happened to be The Playboy Club then so be it, good of them.  Shit, it was a t.v. show half of America was watching earlier this year...until it got canceled.
     On this eve of New Year's Eve, I'm so happy to be reminded of my parents.  My fun loving and in love parents, who were married 6 years before they had me.  They got to know each other, explore, travel and have a blast before their kids came and then when we did, they made or lives full and rich and yes, lots of fun before they died.  I wake up every morning with two holes in my heart, but these stories about my parents help get me through each day and for that I am lucky.  I'm lucky so many people loved and cared about my parents and appreciated having them in their lives.  I know I did.

Thursday, December 29, 2011


     It's Day #2 of my stay-cation and so far so good.  I've gotten drinks every night this week.  I've eaten at some of my favorite restaurants.  I went to the movies today by myself during the day and loved every minute of it.  I've done some major shopping and by major shopping I mean I've gotten some incredibly awesome deals.  Here's to carrying on, lots more relaxing and enjoying my time off.  

Wednesday, December 28, 2011


     I hate today.  Twenty-five years ago today on December 28, 1986 my Mom passed away.  She was only 39 years old and only 8 days away from her 40th birthday.
     Doctors diagnosed my mother with leukemia when she was 37 years old.  My parents decided that they would fight the cancer and find the best doctors and hospital.  That hospital, the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center ("Fred Hutch" for those of us who had loved ones there), its amazing doctors and nurses happened to be in Seattle, Washington.  My parents flew to Seattle and admitted my mother to the wing of the hospital that specialized in blood related cancers.
     After that, my Dad flew to Seattle from Albuquerque almost every weekend, leaving me and my sister with neighbors, baby-sitters, friends, and my grandmother, once she got to the states from India.  It was a stressful and sad time and I can't even imagine how my father kept his head above water while he went to work, raised us, traveled and kept on top of my Mom's disease.  He knew all of her medications, the times and dosages she took and all the reactions--good and bad--she had to them.  Dad kept a chart, a hand-written chart of all of this in his pocket at all times.  He'd study it whenever he could.  Dad basically became a doctor during the 3 years my Mom was sick.  He researched leukemia and learned all he could about it.
     Over 3 years, Mom had 3 bone marrow transplants and battled the cancer.  She fought hard and I even remember her working out with a physical therapist in the morning on the day she died.  Maybe that's where I get my drive to wake up every morning at 5:30am to work out.  If she could exercise while she was sick and in the hospital than I sure better be able to get my fat ass out of bed every morning while I'm healthy and go to the gym.
     When I think about how it's been 25 years, I'm amazed.  So much time has passed.  So much time lost, time that I could have had with my Mom.  I'm 35 years old--two years away from the age when Mom was diagnosed.  I try not to get morbid, but it's hard.  Mom's mother, my grandmother had breast cancer.  I feel like cancer might be in our genes.  And some days, on my real bad days, like today, I feel like I'm waiting, like I'm a sitting duck, waiting for the cancer.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011


     I heard from my First Grade Friend today and got a picture text too.  Her three year old daughter who I've met once (and who my sister met at the same time), a month ago at Thanksgiving, made paper dolls today.  She colored the first paper doll's dress blue and named her.  The name she gave the paper doll--my sister's name.  My First Grade Friend asked why did you name the doll that and her daughter replied "because that's the name of mommy's friend from school."
     We'll I'll admit, my sister was at school with me and my First Grade Friend, but not when we were in first grade.  She came to our elementary 3 years later.  I shouldn't be jealous that I didn't get a paper doll named after me, it's so nice and such a good story and what a good memory for a 3 year old who just met us to remember our names (or one of our names).  So I'm holding out for the next time my First Grade Friend cuts out paper dolls with her daughter.  And I'm crossing my fingers that I get a namesake too.

Monday, December 26, 2011


     Laser hair removal.  I may never have to shave my legs again thanks to that $99 Groupon or Urbandealight voucher I purchased.  I know this sounds like a paid advertisement but that $99 was the best money I've ever spent.  I got 6 sessions, which turns out to be only $16.50 per session.  After the first laser hair removal session, I was amazed.  It really worked.  Really.
     Now we all know how waxing, shaving cream and razors can start to add up...over a lifetime, so this laser hair removal experiment was a well worth the investment.  Especially since I used to barter and trade babysitting time with a local esthetician in Albuquerque.  And you thought your high school days were strange.  My then step-monster took me to get my legs waxed when I was 15 or 16.  I felt so happy to leave with such smooth legs--it was way better than shaving.  The leg waxing lady felt for me since I had thick, dark leg hair.  So she made a deal with me--I'd baby sit her daughter in exchange for leg waxes.  Our bartering lasted until I graduated high school.
     In college I didn't have that kind of business opportunity, so it was back to the razors and balancing on one leg in the Markley dormitory shower to shave my legs with a can of women's shaving cream.  But once I graduated out of dorm life and into apartment living in Ann Arbor I started buying microwavable wax and waxed my own legs in my living room.
     The thing with waxing is, it doesn't last forever.  The hair grows back.  It always grows back.  Plus, the in-between stage is no party, it's itchy and prickly and not pretty to look at.  That's what made me buy that $99 deal.  Bring on the lasers, I can't wait until I don't have to waste anymore time or money on razors, wax or other depilatories.  Yes!

Sunday, December 25, 2011


     Most of the Jewish people I know eat Chinese food and go to the movies today because Chinese restaurants tend to always be open on Christmas Day as do movie theaters.  So enjoy Happy Movie and Chinese Food Day a/k/a Happy Christmas!

Saturday, December 24, 2011


     The best thing about this Christmas is that I only have a couple of squirts left in the bottle perfume my ex-boyfriend gave me for Christmas last year.  Thank goodness and good riddance to both of them.  The only problem is that I’ve been wearing that perfume a lot—to get rid of it—that people now think it’s my signature fragrance.  I’ve gotten tons of compliments on the perfume and I just smile thinking to myself all I want to do is get rid of it and buy something new. 
     Speaking of gifts from boys and ex-boyfriends, what do you do with the really good ones, like the Tiffany necklace and the cashmere scarf?  Personally, I wear those 2 on occasion.  Not all the time.  I’d never do that; then they might actually start to mean something, rather than just being nice gifts from people I used to date.  But then there are the weird gifts, like the artsy fartsy necklace from an art fair?  It’s so clunky and chalky that it’d weigh me down to wear it, not to mention possibly soil my blouse or sweater.  And I’m not brave enough to wear it against my bare skin.  So that one, it stays in the drawer.  You know the drawer for lost things.  It’s not a junk drawer, it’s just the drawer you put stuff in that you don’t want to throw away.  It’s full of things that you like to look at every once in a while, not every day. 
     What else?  Dried flowers?  I used to dry the flowers I’d receive.  I’d make a big production about tying their stems with ribbons and hanging them upside down.  Not so much anymore.  Why keep them?  Plus, Mr. Perfume gift-giver above sent me a card with a dried rose he’d given me and I’d left at his house.  The dried up petals falling on the floor as I opened the card (and let’s be honest the card itself—too little to late buddy) kind of creeped me out.  Thanks but no thanks.  I think I’m done with drying my flowers for good. Enjoying them while they’re alive is good enough for me; I don’t need to see them in a shriveled form after they’ve expired. 

Friday, December 23, 2011


     There isn't anything better than starting off the eve of Christmas Eve and a long weekend to boot than with a big glass of wine and dessert.  Just those 2 items.  Who needs dinner anyway?  Screw all those cookies and cakes around the office, I went full in for the Butterscotch Pot de Creme at Neighborhood Services.  That butterscotch pudding is like crack cocaine and I've never done a single drug, I've never even smoked a cigarette.  But I know what doing drugs would feel like, it would feel like eating this entire dessert--without sharing.

Thursday, December 22, 2011


     I will always be so proud to be a member of the 2008-2009 ALC (Associate Leadership Council) of TREC (The Real Estate Council).  Attending our holiday happy hour tonight made me remember the dear friends I made that year.  I met 24 incredibly wonderful and special people that year and know I will have those people in my life as friends forever.
     It's not every party you go to and hug EVERY SINGLE person at the table.  But with the 2008-2009 ALC class you do.  You always do.  You can't fake the bonds we made.  They are true ladies and gentlemen.  Not only has a man in that group never allowed me to pay for even a single drink but I've always been walked to my car by one of them, no matter what, no matter where and no questions asked.  And the women are awesome--loyal, lovely and there for you whenever you need them.
     It's funny how you forget how close you are to people when you don't see them every week.  I used to see the ALC class every Saturday while we tore down and built a house (we had help during the weekdays with true construction professionals) for a mother of 5.  But the minute I saw all (most of them--not everyone could make it) of them tonight we just started where we left off--just like family.  It was like coming home.  Plus, it didn't hurt that we were at the same bar we used to come to after our 8 hour house building days.
     Thank you to the 2008-2009 ALC class for being so wonderful to each other and staying so amazing even after our official, designated time together ended.  I'm so lucky to know each and every one of you.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011


     My free Showtime (by way of just asking my cable company for a good deal) has allowed me to get plugged into the series Homeland.  Just in time for the holidays--it's going to be so much fun to veg out in front of the t.v. now.  That show is damn good.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


     Happy (first night of) Hanukkah!  I love saying that since my name rhymes with Hanukkah, plus I'm actually Jewish.  So it's a double good whammy.

Monday, December 19, 2011


     I want to make an addition to my favorite songs:  Dancing in the Moonlight by King Harvest.  It's one of the best songs ever.  I hear it and I'm instantly in a good mood.  It never fails me.  Go on and listen to it, you won't be disappointed.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


     I went to a great Caravaggio exhibit today at the Kimbell museum in Ft. Worth.  It hard to imagine Caravaggio painted those works in the 1500s and 1600s and people are still going to look at them.  You could tell how his use of shadows was so revolutionary back then when you compare his work to his contemporaries.  

Saturday, December 17, 2011


     I just got back from a tacky Christmas sweater brunch.  It's only the second time I've worn a holiday sweater.  The last tacky Christmas sweater party I went to I ended up wearing a tacky Halloween sweater--I didn't have my own sweater and that awful, orange Halloween mess was the only one my friend had that I could borrow.  At today's party I was accused of wearing a "pretty" Christmas sweater and that mine wasn't tacky enough.  I just can't win...

Friday, December 16, 2011


     I recently talked to this guy I used to date and he said the strangest thing to me.  He thanked me for always being honest with him.  I just stared at him thinking what other way is there to be...especially if we had been in a relationship.  Why wouldn't I always tell him the truth and be honest with him?!
     I think if some guy you're dating or some guy you used to date says that to you it means he wasn't honest with you EVER.  And that means, it's time to lace up your running shoes or your lace up boots or just put on your shoes and run.  Run fast.  Run likes there's no tomorrow.  Run like the wind.  Who raises these guys?  Where do they come from?  Why do they keep knocking on my door?

Thursday, December 15, 2011


  I just learned that I’m not speaking to someone.  That’s news to me.  An acquaintance of mine told me that a friend of mine told this acquaintance that I’m not speaking to her. I’m surprised to hear that I’m not speaking to this person when I’ve been communicating with her for months.  Does sending someone an email to wish that person a happy birthday and inviting that same person to various events over the span of several months count as not speaking to someone?  Apparently. 
     I’m so confused.  If I’m not talking to you, why are you writing me back?  And if you’re mad that I’m only emailing you and not calling, maybe you should let me know.  I do know that I keep inviting this person to do things and the response is so luke warm, so unexcited, that making the effort to invite her to do things doesn’t even seem worth it (especially now that I’ve learned that “I’m not talking to her”).  But what do I continue to do?  I continue to invite her to things—hoping against hope that something might spark her interest and want to go do something.  Hey, if your personality is to not get excited, so be it.  But don’t go around telling people that I’m not speaking to you.  And if you’re upset about something, phones and email work both ways, you can initiate a conversation with me.  I'm the only one doing any of the communicating.  
     Ah, maybe what’s going on here is that she told this mutual acquaintance of ours that I’m not speaking to her, but in reality she’s really not speaking to me.  Hey, if you’re not speaking to me, do me the common courtesy of letting me know—by really not speaking to me and by not responding to my emails.  Don’t go airing dirty laundry to people you hardly know and don’t continue to respond to my invitations or well wishes if you don’t want to speak to me—just be silent.  Why respond to me if you don’t want to talk to me?  To be polite?  That’s seems a bit strange.  Not to mention a wasted effort. 
     I’ve truly never experienced this sort of silent treatment—where there’s nothing really silent going on, on either party’s end. 

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


     Don't you hate it when the brake failure light comes the middle of a rain storm?  I do.  Oh and in case you were wondering AAA can't come look at your car to help replace fluids like brake fluid, it can only tow your car or help you get it started.  Good to know.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


   Last night I received a phone call from a couple that used to know my parents when they all lived in Ohio before I was born.  My parents used to throw huge parties and have people to play bridge all the time.  The couple had been in touch with my parents after they left Ohio and moved to New York and then New Mexico.  The couple knew that my mom had passed away, but then they fell out of touch with Dad.
     That happened a lot.  My Dad lost touch with lots of people after my mom died.  Either he didn’t have the energy to keep up those relationships since he was busy trying to figure out how to raise two girls on his own, with limited, if any help at all or he didn’t care anymore or he was used to Mommy keeping up all the social events and friendships. Whatever his reason, I don’t blame him, but it would have been nice to have those people in our lives.
     When I was on the phone with this couple last night, I could hear in their voices how much they loved my parents and how sad they felt for me and my sister knowing that we’ve lost both our mother and our father.  I’m not sure if they could hear that I was crying.  But responding to their questions took a long time because I had to try to stop the tears, clear my throat and stop my nose from running each time.
     It turns out the couple lives in the same city as me and wants to meet.  They want to have me over for dinner or take me out to meet them, their daughters and their grandchildren.  I’m excited to meet them but know it will be a bittersweet meeting.  I just know I’ll start crying at some point, which is not the first thing I like to do in front of strangers.  Maybe I shouldn’t think of them as strangers since they knew my parents so well.  Yeah, that’s the ticket; they’re not strangers at all!  So they’ll be fine when the crying starts…right?

Monday, December 12, 2011


     I’ve met a whole bunch of people pleasers recently.  Maybe the statistics are skewed since I live in the South and people are raised to be nice here.  But I doubt it.
     The people pleasers I’ve met seem to behave the way they do from some inside place, some inherent plea to be liked or feel wanted.  Not because their mommas insisted that they always be polite.  Why do something you don’t want to do or have no interest in doing just so you can make someone else happy?  Yes, sometimes we all do this.  It’s called being altruistic or sympathetic, but to do this all time is annoying at the least and pathetic at best.
     I sent someone a business opportunity because I thought s/he needed the cash or liked doing that kind of worked needed to increase his/her skill set.  Turns out the only reason this person accepted the business opportunity was because s/he thought that’s what I wanted him/her to do, not because s/he really wanted to do the project, needed to do it financially or any other sane reason.  I only sent it to the person because it was an opportunity plain and simple.  I was acting as the vehicle to bring this opportunity to this person. I had no hidden agenda and could care less if s/he took the opportunity or not.
     It bewilders me to deal with people like this.  If they’re only doing things they do to make you happy, when do they do things for themselves?  When do they stop being doormats and start being assertive in their own lives?  And for the record, I never said “it would make me happy if you took this opportunity.”  All I did was present the opportunity and hoped the person could make up his/her own mind—like an adult.
     Just because someone sends me a client, doesn’t mean I’ll take it.  Just because someone sets me up on a date, doesn’t mean I’ll go on it.  Just because someone asks me to go to something or see a certain movie doesn’t mean I’ll just say yes without thinking about it and if I really want to do that activity.  Time is precious and I don’t have a lot of it.  I need to be selective and conscientious of what I’m doing or I’ll get burnt out and resentful of the people I keep saying yes to.  However, these people pleasers can’t do that.  They don’t say no, or it tears them up too much to express any sort of differing point of view or refusal to an invitation.  How can people live like this?  It’s crazy to me.

Sunday, December 11, 2011


     What is it about older women and the loud noises they make in ladies room?  Not to generalize, but yes, to generalize, I've been in several ladies' rooms lately with older women who go into a stall and start sighing, grunting and making all sorts of exasperated noises.  Is it really that hard?  Is it that bad?  Is it that much of a burden to relieve themselves?  I guess that's why its called it the restroom.

Saturday, December 10, 2011


     Art shows at galleries = good places to meet guys, especially if you're having a good hair day!  Three different guys just came up to me at this art show and said the nicest compliments to me--all three were about my curly hair.  No joke.  Add that to the good hair compliment I got from my girlfriend and that's four.  I'm on fire!  Good job curls.  Good job.

Friday, December 9, 2011


     When I was younger I'd try so hard to watch Dick Clark do the New Year's Eve countdown and see the ball drop.  But sometime around 10:38 or 11:24, I'd fall asleep.  I remember Dad carrying me into my room and coming wide awake, panicked.  "I need to stay up until it's New Years.  Dad, I have to stay up until next year."  That's when Dad would say we'd celebrate New Years tomorrow or Mom would chime in "It's the New Year in New York!  So you've made it.  You stayed up long enough, it's ok."  Somehow that manipulation of time did the trick.  I'd relax, snuggle my head on Dad's shoulder as he continued to carry me to my room, and think it was already the next year.

Thursday, December 8, 2011


     I may be single and never been married, but I've had a work husband, a work boyfriend and a work crush--all at the same time.  I've come to realize that those relationships are truly important and necessary.  I don't have a one of those right now and I miss those guys.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011


     I call my grandma who lives in India Mama.  Mama likes to pretend her English isn't that good, but it's actually great.  Mama has a couple of sayings that I love:  "I love you too much"  and "Don't be a proudy."  She cracks me up!

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


     I received a VIP offer in the mail from my cable company.  I called the 1-800 VIP RSVP number and inquired about the offer.  Turns out for $50 the cable company will treat me really well. 
     I asked the sales lady if there were any other offers I was eligible for.  Just for asking that question she gave me $20 off of my cable box every month.  Then she added a premium movie channel to my cable for free for a year.  I hung up super happy, with a $20 cheaper bill every month, plus Showtime—all Showtime channels and there are a lot. Are you kidding me?

Monday, December 5, 2011

DAY 131: WHY?

     Why do people say things like:
"Meet my future daughter-in-law" or "My mom will want me to marry you when she finds out you play tennis" or "Come with me to this party or be my date to this wedding (in 5 months)" when he just met you that day?  Or "You're the kind of girl I want to marry."
     Enough already.  I mean really, slow down, hold on.  Get to know me.  Make sure you know what you're saying to me.  These kind of comments drive me nuts.

Sunday, December 4, 2011


     There are certain things you really need your elbow for and not being able to bend it presents a problem. Example A--combing my hair.  I can't do my hair, it hurts too bad.  I'd planned to go to the museum today and have my friend come over and do my hair before we left, but I got too nauseous and dizzy from the pain meds to go to the museum.  Result--hair not done and half a bottle of Pepto done.  Example B--brushing my teeth with my right hand just isn't possible right now.  Brushing one's teeth requires a bent elbow and I can't do that.  So I'm getting a marginally good brushing by using my left hand to it.  But I don't think my dentist would be that happy with my lack of ambidextrous skills.  I'd write down some more examples, but I'm just too tired right now.

Saturday, December 3, 2011


     I made two miles through the eight mile Spartan (Mud) Race today before I slipped, fell in some mud and braced my fall with my elbow.  I got it x-rayed and there's no broken bones, so it's just a sprain.  I get to wear a sexy sling and take pain killers now.  It hurts and it hurts even worse to say I didn't finish the race.  In a bad mood and want some ice cream...

Friday, December 2, 2011


     While concentrating on picking out the green ones from my mini box of Dots at work the other day, I dropped the whole box.  My work is not a place where the 5 second rule would ever apply.  So I headed back to the candy drawer (We literally have a filing cabinet full of candy.  And I just found out the candy drawer has its own secret stash of candy in a side filing cabinet.  I work with some serious sugar eaters…) as someone shouted “re-do” behind me.  Yes, that dropped box of Dots most definitely called for a re-do.
     I experienced another Dots episode in my life; well really, my sister did.  I was just an innocent bystander.  Years ago Dad took us to go see the musical Me and My Girl in New York at the theater attached to the Marriot hotel.  At the concession stand before the show, my sister chose a box of Dots as her candy.  Before the actors made it to intermission my sister started choking.  This wasn’t fake choking or anything to laugh about and Dad knew it.  He scooped my sister out of her seat and ran into the theater’s foyer.  Thankfully and for whatever reason a NYC fireman happened to be in the theater and saw my near blue-faced sister.  The fireman rushed over and had to give my sister the Heimlich maneuver.  Out of her mouth popped a Dot. 
     This story would be so much better if my sister had choked on a green Dot.  But I don’t recall the color of the projectile gummy candy my sister hurled across the lobby of the Marquis Theater—it was probably red or yellow.  I just know we had to teach her the universal sign for choking after this incident and that a Dot wasn’t the last thing she choked on.

Thursday, December 1, 2011


     Why for most of us is there a time in our lives that we become addicted to soap operas?  It's as if we live and die by them or that's how I felt in high school and especially the summers during high school.  This was before Tivo and DVRs, so I had to program my VCR to see what Stefano did to Marlena that week.  Talk about living vicariously through someone.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


     Is there such thing as fake nipple rings?  I am hoping so.  I had a blind date with a guy and did some sleuthing before the date--my usual Google stalking.  My sleuthing unearthed this guy's My Space page and on that My Space page were several pictures of him in Halloween costumes.  These costumes all had one theme in common--no shirt required.  Well, when someone doesn't have a shirt on you can find out lots of interesting things.  In this case, the guy had nipple rings.
     My questions are: were those nipple rings part of his sexy cop costume or his modernized cave man outfit? Or were they the real deal, worn every day under his normal clothes nipple rings?  Unfortunately or fortunately, I cannot answer those questions...

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


     For the record (and in case you were all dying to know) I refuse to negotiate with terrorists.  So to the lady who thinks she can extort money from me (and is threatening to do so) due to a fender bender that was her fault, I repeat: I do not negotiate with terrorists, that means you lady, that means you.

Monday, November 28, 2011


     What kind of work are you in if you need to bathe with Dial anti-bacterial body wash?  I don't want to know.
     What I do know is that my company buys this Dial body wash in bulk from Sam's Club for us to use as hand soap.  That I get, I work at a manufacturing plant and while there is a shower in 1 of the bathrooms, I'm 99.99% positive that no one is using it.  Jeez, I hope not.  That would be an awkward office situation.

Sunday, November 27, 2011


     Sitting on the plane flying back to Dallas this morning, I overheard two college girls talking.  They talked a lot about rushing sororities and Greek life.  Then they started talking about shopping and clothes.  I realized how big the age gap was between us when one of them said that she initially thought the store J Crew sold "Mom clothes."
     Mom clothes!  I shop there and I'm not a mom.  I'm no where near being a mom.  I started to panic.  But then the girl who made that blanket statement retracted it.  She used to think it was a Mom store but then she went there and saw some other girls at her school wearing J Crew clothes and they looked cute and nice.
     Well, phew, glad we got that issue solved.  I'm really not ready to give up shopping at J Crew.  I didn't think it was like Chico's, which is the store I consider to be a "Mom store."

Saturday, November 26, 2011


     Some sound advice from my first grade friend: "build a bridge and get over it."  She started saying this years ago and it never went out of style.

Friday, November 25, 2011


     All the people waiting in lines to get into stores and then fighting with each other over toys and handbags once they get into the stores amaze me.  Was it really worth it to rush your Thanksgiving dinner to get to the mall or strip center so early?  Is that item really worth it that you needed to knife someone or brandish a gun in front of other shoppers so you got to go home with it?  Are you going to wake up happy and thankful tomorrow morning? 
     Now, I'll admit I did some shopping today.  But I didn't get violent.  I did smile when I got the extra 50% off that Cole-Haan purse though...

Thursday, November 24, 2011


     I give thanks for this home my father worked so hard to provide for us.  Can you even believe this view of the Sandia Mountains?  It will be unbearable to sell this place or even to rent it out—it’s home, the place we come for comfort and togetherness.  It’s hard when your family's not living in your home anymore.  But then when you get there it’s all ok and all your memories come flooding back.  I’m thankful for those memories.    

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


     Forget that Schweddy Balls Ice Cream.  Did you know Ben & Jerry's makes a Red Velvet flavor?  Go try it, it's great.  
     I actually want to try the Schweddy Balls flavor--vanilla ice cream with a hint of rum and is loaded with fudge covered rum and milk chocolate malt balls, but I can't find it anywhere...

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


     Apparently Bravo Zulu is a naval signal that means "well done."  Well my boss, formerly in the Navy, said Bravo Zulu to me today!  Pretty cool, even if I had to look it up to see what it meant.

Monday, November 21, 2011


     The worst thing you can do is not respond when someone reaches out to you.  An ex-boyfriend of mine texted me this weekend--of course he wouldn't call, that's how it is these days.  I ignored it and I don't ever plan to respond.  Keep in mind this is the same person who has called me and hung up--he didn't leave a voicemail and we all know that's the equivalent of hanging up on someone.  This is also the same person who felt that not talking to me for a week didn't mean we'd broken up--he thought we were still together (I'm certain if some guy can't or won't talk to you, he's got no business being a relationship with you).
     I've sent cards, letters and emails to people and received no response.  It hurt my feelings.  While I'm not proud to be doing the exact same thing, I see no reason to open the door to any further communication with this person.  Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.  My gut says he's not a good guy, so it's not worth it.

Sunday, November 20, 2011


     Dad didn't drop me off at school my freshman year.  My then step-monster had put our family on a "budget" and thought that paying Dad's plane fare to Ann Arbor would be too expensive.  But Dad did come with me to my freshman orientation at the University of Michigan before I left our house for good and before the my step-monster has implemented the "budget."
     Now take yourself back to a time pre-email and pre-cell phones.  I had neither.  Dad dropped me off at my dorm room in West Quad for freshman orientation and told me he'd stop by at a certain the or that he'd call me on the pay phone at a certain time.  The orientation people put me in a triple room with bunk beds.  I met one of my roommates, she marched in the U-M marching band.  The other roommate showed up once during our entire orientation and I can't remember her story except that she already knew people in Ann Arbor and was too cool to christen our room with her presence.
     Dad was worrier and a very protective parent.  He must of sighed a sigh of relief when he saw that the orientation organizers provided a bulletin board for the students where notes and messages could be left for them.  I felt cool and special the first time I found a note with my name written on it pinned to the board.  Of course I knew it was from Dad even before I unfolded it.  I could spot his all caps, black felt tip pen, block printing anywhere.  (Who else would it be from?)
     The pride I felt in receiving that first note started to fade and transformed into slight embarrassment when Dad started leaving me notes every few hours.  He gave me advice like "take a sweater to your math placement test, it gets cold in big auditoriums."  He asked questions like: "Have you met the Indian girl?  She seems very nice."  He warned me about college parities:  "Please don't drink alcohol or go to any of those big parties, people could take advantage of you."  Dad's notes when on and on.  I left orientation with a huge pile of them.
     No one knew what Dad had written to me, so I really had no reason to feel embarrassed.  And what I realized on the plane ride home to Albuquerque was that this was Dad's way.  He wouldn't tell me how much he was going to miss me or cry as I stepped on the plane a month later to start my freshman year.  But he'd try to tell me all those things or express that emotion in notes, letters and care packages that would track my college years, my law school years and even the years when I'd be finished with school.  Because even in the real world and all grown up, Dad still needed to be the best parent he could to me and the written word was his way.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


     Do you know where the Dallas area Scrabble Club meets on Tuesday nights?  I do.  It's at the IHOP on I635 and Josey Lane.  I know this due to my love of Scrabble and a little help from Jennifer Lopez playing in her Scrabble Club in the movie the Wedding Planner.
     When I moved to Dallas, I knew no one.  Not a soul.  I knew I liked playing Scrabble and I knew from JLo's romantic comedy that there were such things as Scrabble Clubs.  So I opened my game of Scrabble, found a pamphlet and called the 1-800 number for the National Scrabble Association.  They gave me the contact info for 2 Dallas Scrabble Clubs.  I chose to go to the Tuesday night club at IHOP.
     The Scrabble Club met in the Josey Lane IHOP's side room.  I didn't get there early.  Players, or should I says club members, had already set up their boards.  Almost every board was elevated and spun completly around so one didn't have to move the board or crane her neck to see a possibility for a play.  The club's captain gave me a cheat sheet since it was my first time.  The cheat sheet had all these 4 letter words with no vowels and high point letters like XYST and ZZZS--yes these are both apparently legal Scrabble words.      
     Anyway, I would be able to play 3 games.  For each game a player had 25 minutes to make all of his or her plays--there was a timer, like in chess.  This meant if you didn't know the Scrabble board well and how many points a blue or pink square was worth then you'd be screwed.  I was screwed.  I had to lift my letters up after I made a play and count my points. It took forever.  I lost the first game badly.  My first opponent had been an elderly man with a mangled hand.  He'd showed some mercy to me and in return I hadn't minded helping him place some of his tiles on the board since he couldn't use both hands.
     Oh this would also be a good time to mention I was the youngest player in the group by at least 25 years.  There was one guy my age (at the time) who was 28.  He was so obese he couldn't even get up to shake my hand.  No future loves would be found at Scrabble Club.  In my second game I played a nice lady in her fifties.  She won, but I felt like I was getting the hang of things.  No so.  Because along came my third opponent.
     She was a sweet looking, white-haired lady, with a nice outfit on and her hair swap up in a tidy bun.  She was out for blood.  Her first words to me were:  "what do you think you're doing with that word sheet?"  I told her that the club captain gave it to me and said I could use it as a cheat sheet since it was my first time at Scrabble Club.  Sweet grandma wouldn't have it.  I looked at her and said "you're going to win anyway so what does it matter if I use the cheat sheet?"  She still wouldn't budge.  So the ass-wooping begun.
     That 80 year old lady spanked me.  Not literally, but she might as well have.  She won handily.  I think she had at least 2 bingos.  A bingo in Scrabble means you used all 7 letters in your letter rack in one play.  The reward is 50 extra points on top of your word score.  It's absurd.  Well, I take that back.  It's absurd if you're the newbie at Scrabble Club losing badly and the only thing you have to show for it is your sticky syrup coated fingers when you leave.  Remember this club played its games at IHOP and someone along the way had ordered pancakes and now a thin but distinct layer of syrup coated all the Scrabble tiles belonging to each board in the room.
     I left sticky and cried in my car as I drove home.  I knew I'd never go back.  I hadn't met any new friends and an old grandma had been mean to me.  That's no way to spend a Tuesday night even if you are at an IHOP.

Friday, November 18, 2011


     I saw Venus Williams speak at the Girl Scouts of Northeast Texas luncheon today.  She surprised me with her poise and public speaking skills.  Plus, it was great to see so many girls who are Girls Scouts and hear about how many women leaders were former Girl Scouts (lots of US Senators).  It reminded me of my Brownie troop.
     Mom decided not to be my troop's leader.  Instead she was the leader for a troop of girls one year older than me.  It upset me to know that my own mother didn't want to be my troop leader.  But she chose not to be my troop's leader because she didn't want anyone to ever think she was playing favorites towards me.  She wanted me to have my own experience.  This wasn't the first time she'd done something like that.  She'd volunteer at my elementary school library, but never during my class' reading hour.  She'd always come earlier in the morning and help other students in different classes.  I think this was her way of teaching me to be independent and how things won't always be day or handed to you because you know someone.  Whaddaya know, it even though she wasn't my Brownie or Girl Scout troop leader, she served as a great role model.
     Dad gets props too.  I stayed in Girl Scouts after Mom died.  Dad helped me to sell my cookies and get my badges.  I never sold enough cookies to get the trip to Disney Land, but I did sell enough for the prized stuffed animal one year.  I'd go door to door trying to sell the cookies from the extra cases Dad bought (so I could reach the amount of cookies needed to "win" the stuffed animal) with him standing behind me or waiting at the curb lugging the half full case of Samoas.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


     My Dad used to always say (I'm not sure where he got this or if he was quoting someone else) that opinions are like assholes--everybody has one.  So true, so so true.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


     Ok, I wasn't served with a subpoena today by and FBI Special Agent.  But my company was--no worries, the company didn't do anything wrong and will be helping out with an investigation.  Anyway, the really interesting part of this whole "being served" business is that I knew the FBI agent serving the subpoena.  We'd been on a blind date.  A terrible blind date.
     This guy was the 3 Pile Guy.  The guy who picked the skin off of his fingers at our lunch table and when his pile of skin got too big he swept it into his napkin covered lap only to start picking the skin off of his fingers and cuticles again.  He made 3 separate piles of skin on our date and 2 of those, actually maybe all 3, were before our lunch was served.
     I cannot begin to tell you how awkward the whole situation/s was/were...both that lunch and seeing him today, 2 years later in his work capacity, were both pretty bad.  Oh and I had to shake his hand as did the owner of my company.  I need to go wash my hands--so gross!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011


     Have your clothes ever been moldy?  Not mildew on your towel, I mean mold on your clothes.  I left my clothes from the Tomato Battle on Saturday in a trash bag until I did my laundry this morning.  Why I waited so long, I have no idea.  I planned to throw the tomato-drenched shirt away but wash the pants and keep them.  Well, it turns out I had no choice about the shirt, because when I opened the bag the shirt was covered in mold and tomato seeds.  Oh and it smelled real good too...nice.  Needless to say I won't be doing that again and I'm probably out on the whole tomato fight too.  Unless it's the original one in Spain.

Monday, November 14, 2011


     I just saw the exhibit The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier: From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk at the Dallas Museum of Art.  What a designer.  The exhibit made we wish I could sew or better yet be a couture fashion designer.  Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't/couldn't wear a quarter of Jean Paul's outfits; but he does make some pretty art.  

Sunday, November 13, 2011


     I'll pick out the lime-flavored/green candies from Dots and Lifesavers.  But green M&Ms are A-okay.

Saturday, November 12, 2011


     I just got home from fighting in the Tomato Battle-- a huge food fight with tomatoes.  I'd like to report that the Tomato Battle's website wasn't entirely accurate.  The tomatoes weren't overripe and too mushy to be sold in the store and none of them had been peeled.  Instead they weren't ripe at all and some were still green.  In fact, the facility manager for the park where the battle took place told us that 2 pallets of tomatoes had to be removed because they were green.  Green as in unripe.  Green as in hard.
     Just imagine how hard the rest the tomatoes were that hit me in the head and neck.  They were hard and they hurt!  I saw some girls get nailed and I was one of them.  But I didn't shed any tears.  I tried to aim my throws at this guy who was basically a minor league or a major league baseball player.  He was pitching fast balls, I mean tomatoes, at unsuspecting food fighters.  Unfortunately my aim is terrible and I didn't hit him once, which left him to continue to pelt tomatoes at everyone and anyone.
     I left the mound of tomatoes with some of them still in tact, tons of seeds splattered over my clothes and lots of tomato gunk in my hair.  Hey, maybe this is the hair product I've been searching hair sure feels soft and supple after my shower.  Hmm, interesting.

Friday, November 11, 2011

DAY 107: 11.11.11

Happy November 11, 2011!  I was feeling lucky today.  Should have bought that lottery ticket...

Thursday, November 10, 2011


     I still use hair gel as if it’s the 1980s and big hairbands still rule.  See I have naturally curly hair and hair gel is the only product that makes my hair look the way I want it too—semi-decent and not like a frizz ball from poodle hell.  But it comes at the price of drying out my curls with alcohol and oh yeah being seen using gel, when most people use their beloved “products” like serums and other fancy monikered lotions and potions. 
     So if you're trying to invent some new anti-frizz hair product, please make one like gel, but without the drying effects and make sure the product works the way curly-haired people want their products to work.  And no there isn't one on the market that does that.  Trust me and my cupboard full of once or twice used anti-frizz, prettier curls guaranteed products.  We want hold.  We don’t want flakes.  We don’t want to have to use half a bottle of crap each time we do our hair.  We don’t want any frizz period.  Get it?  Got it?  Good.
     Due to the current inefficiency products on the market I had to bust out my curling iron this morning to re-curl my curls.  That would never happen if I was using the perfect hair product for naturally curly hair.  With all the hullaballoo of heating up the curling iron and rushing to get to work on time I whisked that barrel right across my chin and burned it.  I have a date tonight!  Not good.  Not good at all.
     This whole burnt chin curling iron debacle reminds me of the time I was trying so hard to curl my sister’s hair and do a good job at our version of the beauty parlor game.  We had a babysitter that night who and I remember her stuffing her face with OUR box of Thin Mints Girl Scout Cookies while she “supervised” our makeshift hair salon in the kitchen.  I had my sister on a stool and curled away until wap I singed the top of her right ear.  Not my best hairstylist moment and not a pleasant result for my sister.  A huge blister formed on the top of her ear and she screamed bloody murder at me until I most likely ran to my room and slammed the door leaving her with an inflamed ear, a non-interested babysitter and no Thin Mints.  Needless to say she forbade me to ever do her hair again and the ban is still in effect to this day. 
     The whole blister on the ear catastrophe makes me think of the Icy Hot incident.  We grew up in the desert.  As little kids we weren’t constantly using hand cream and lotion.  This lack of moisturizing regime turned out to be an unfortunate practice for my sister because her hands got terribly dry.  Her cuticles got so dry that her fingers would bleed.  They looked awful. 
     In an effort to help my pained sister, I took a play from Dad’s playbook and went searching through his tennis bag for his container of Icy Hot.  Dad used Icy Hot for his sore muscles after his weekly tennis matches.  In my mind Icy Hot was a cure all.  It worked for Dad, so it would work for my sister.  I didn’t realize you shouldn’t apply Icy Hot to open, bleeding wounds and I was too stupid or headstrong to read the warning label.  Can you say bad idea?  I slathered that pain-relieving cream all over my little sister’s chapped hands.  She screamed sounds I’d never heard before.  I immediately doused her inflamed paws into a sink of cold water.  I tried dot wipe off the Icy Hot. Nothing helped.  Dad came running at the sound of the first scream and started to help her.  He shooed me away all the while looking at me as if I was the devil’s spawn.  My sister was enraged, with every right, started crying and had to try and deal with the pain. 
     I used to say the reason I didn’t go to medical school was because I faint at the sight of blood.  I think this story proves I just don’t have the capacity to heal anything or help anyone in while she’s in pain.  In case she’s still mad about the Icy Hot (I would be), this serves as my open apology to my younger sister.  I am so sorry for being an idiot and rubbing that menthol analgesic all over your dry, little hands.  If it helps, your hands are way cuter than mine…  Too soon?  Ok.  But I am sorry. Really I am.  So very sorry. 

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


     Thanksgiving's right around the corner and I'm so happy to be doubled booked for Thanksgiving dinner at my first grade friend's house and our dear family friends' home.  It feels so good to know I have a wonderful place to go for the holiday and to have 2 places to go to, well that's just amazing!  Plus both dinners are home in Albuquerque.  Priceless.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

DAY 104: AWWWW..........TEXAS

     I just had a guy cancel our date because I'm a liberal.  Seriously.  Only in Texas could I imagine--and oh look it did--happen.  How closed minded do you have to be to not go on a date with someone because she has a different political viewpoint than you?  Oh dear.

Monday, November 7, 2011


     Before the City of Albuquerque built the Juan Tabo branch library close to our house, Mommy had to drive us to the Erna Ferguson branch slightly further away.  My sister and I loved going to the library each week to select the books we'd get to take home with us.  During one of the weekly visits I got so excited to show my mother the book I wanted to check out that I started running through the stacks only to end up hitting my eye on the corner of a table that stood at the perfect height to cause some major blood shed and a scar above my left eye that still exists to this day.
     Fortunate for me, Mommy had locked her keys in the car that day when we arrived at the Erna Ferguson branch.  As blood gushed out of face my mother tried to find a coat hanger to jimmy open our car door.  I remember lots of blood on the library's white tile floor and Mommy ushering me into the bathroom to make me a cold compress out of wet, library paper towels.
     I was glad when the City announced the opening of the new Juan Tabo branch library.  So was my sister and our friend Shelley.  They heard that t.v. cameras would be at the opening.  I didn't care so much about the cameras as I did the new library I'd get to explore and not have to fear getting hurt in.  The Juan Tabo branch was supposed to be much more kid friendly than Erna Ferguson.
     The Saturday of the library opening I decided what to wear carefully.  I wanted to christen the new library with my favorite, fancy, ivory party dress.  Mommy had sewn it for me for special occasions and this seemed like the perfect one for me to wear it to.  My sister and Shelley didn't wear their party clothes or even seem to care about the books we'd get to check out.  They were camera hungry.
     From the minute we entered the Juan Tabo branch, Shelley and my sister hunted down the t.v. cameraman.  I'd run into the every so often as I browsed the new shelves of pristine books.  We eventually left the library that afternoon, when my sister triumphantly announced that she'd gotten on camera.  But that night when we watched the library footage on our local station there were no shots with my sister or Shelley waving at the camera.  Instead, the cameraman found a little, brown-haired girl, in an ivory party dress with lace trimmed sleeves, alone in an aisle of childrens' books as she knelt down to select one and then sat on the floor to start reading it.  I guess it pays to be a reader...

Sunday, November 6, 2011


     My family in India uses mothballs to store their clothes and to keep out mice.  If I stayed with tradition I'd still be using them to store my sweaters and other wool clothes.  But I've moved on and use cedar blocks and cedar spray in my closets and drawers.  I learned my lesson in college.
     When I packed up all my winter clothes in Ann Arbor to put in storage for the summer after my sophomore year, I generously sprinkled moth balls amongst all of my boxes.  Come August the moving company delivered the boxes to me and my roommate's new apartment.  Turns out you don't really need to use moth balls in Michigan to store your clothes for a mere three months; unless you want all of your friends to call your apartment "grandma's place" or ridicule you about how your comforter smells like an old folks home.  I was only twenty years old and had a major complex.
     Plus, it didn't help that when I went home for winter break that year, Dad had started using mothballs all over the house to "preserve" it since I was't living there full time.  He overused the mothballs in every nook and cranny he could think of.  He even put them in my bathroom sinks and the air vents.  Imagine coming home to relax from all the finals you just took only be fumigated by the strong stench of mothballs wafting through the air vents of your room when the heat came on.  Not fun.  And damn near impossible to breathe.  
     While we're on the topic--if you think that the new "lavender" scented mothballs will be ok and not stink up your sweaters.  Think again.  I tried those cute looking mothballs in the lavender colored boxes which contain the individualized packages of two mothballs in a white paper looking sachet and ended up airing out half my wardrobe for weeks before I could even think about wearing one of the mothballed items.  Uggg.  From here on out it's cedar blocks all the way.  If I ever build a new house I'll make sure it has a cedar closet or a zero sum moth population in all directions.

Saturday, November 5, 2011


     I miss my mom today plain and simple.  I wish I knew her as an adult.  I wish she was here to have conversations with me and I could ask her questions.  I feel jipped.  I didn't get enough time with her.
     When my sister and I talk about our mother we refer to her as "Mommy" never mom.  I think it's because we were both so young when she died.  I was 10 and my sister was 7.  And when she was diagnosed with leukemia we were 7 and 4.  At those ages we still called our mother Mommy and we've really never stopped.  It's as if that time stopped for us on that day in 1986 when she died and no matter how far away we get from it we can't really grow up/or never were able to grow up in any sort of normal way because our lives were altered so dramatically.  I mean if she never got sick and was still here, I can bet you good money neither my sister nor I would still be calling our mother Mommy, she'd be "Mom."  No women in their 30s call their moms "mommy," it'd just be too weird.
     Anyway, it doesn't really matter what I'd call her, I just miss her.  

Friday, November 4, 2011


     Thank you Rob Lowe.  And no, it's not because you're easy on the eyes.  It's because I stated reading your book Stories I Only Tell My Friends.  You write well and your story is already engaging me.  Your book has inspired me to get back into writing my half-finished memoir about my Dad.  I need to finish it.  Because of you, I've been writing things down all day and might bring out my micro cassette recorder tomorrow--so many good ideas I need to capture!
     So Rob Lowe, I don't know you, but I like you and I'm really enjoying your book.  Hopefully, when mine's finished and published it will find a way on to one of your bookshelves like yours is (will be when I'm done with your book) on mine.  Until then happy writing and happy reading to us all...

Thursday, November 3, 2011


     I've decided that if I keep candy in my car, I'll never ever be in a bad mood.  Give me a bag of licorice and all my troubles go away.  Literally.  So why not keep an emergency sugar rush in my car?  Exactly.  The candy of the moment is candy corn--that's the good stuff.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


     My half-slip’s gone missing.  Yes, I still wear a slip under dresses and skirts.  Why?  It’s lady like.  It looks better that to go without one.  And, yes I probably should have grown-up or lived in the 1940s.  I don’t like the see-through crap girls wear nowadays, so I wear a slip.  And I don’t like how dresses cling to me or my tights in the winter if I don’t have a slip on, so again, I wear one.
     As a regular slip wearer, when mine went missing it was almost as if the apocalypse happened.  Okay, maybe not the apocalypse but something very upsetting to me.  Then I went into full search mode and overturned every drawer and dresser I have.  No luck.  I didn’t find my slip and had to go to work without one under my dress.  (I’ve been searching for my half-slip for over a week and I still can’t find it.  I am in anguish over this.)
     Talk about major distress.  I felt miserable today with my dress clinging to my tights.  I wore a long sweater-coat over my dress to camouflage the clinginess, but you can still see it when I walk anywhere.  And I walk anywhere a lot.  I got to the bathroom often—still drinking 80 ounces of water as recommended by that 21 Day Challenge (forgot to mention that ended on Sunday, just in the nick of time for me to eat my weight in Halloween candy) and sometimes I just go for walks around my company’s facility for a break.  I even tried the hair-spray trick.  (You know—spraying hairspray on your dress or tights to stop the cling; and then realized I’d used up the all the hairspray in my travel size bottle for the office and had replaced it with water. Nice move.)  But it didn’t work.  Obviously.
     I realize I could’ve bought a new half-slip last night at the store and saved myself this day of cling and the mess that’s now my bedroom.  But I can’t imagine buying a new one when I know there are two in my apartment that I’ve lost in the past month.  How does one lose a half-slip?  Or two for that matter?  I don’t know, but I’m out of my mind over it.  Literally.  I just wrote an entire blog entry about a half-slip.  How’s that for not having your wits about you? 
     Did I mention I like wearing dresses?  I didn’t wear my first pair of jeans until I was in the third grade.  Mom used to sew most of our clothes (No we were not Amish and yes, her home-sewn clothes actually looked nice.  She could do some fancy tailoring.)  and we had tons and tons of dresses.  I finally wore a pair of jeans, a hand-me-down pair from my neighbor Shelly Turner, who’d affixed a Ms. Pac-Man patch to the right-hand-side back pocket of her (my) styling awesome 80s jeans, one day in the middle of third grade.  I put those jeans on knowing I was going to follow a boy—his name was Brad—home from school that afternoon and needed to wear pants so I could climb over fences and walls that he’d for sure make me go over since I don’t think he was that into me.  And he did.  But he ended up coming over the next day to play MacVegas with me on our new Macintosh computer…  Not bad for chasing some boy home from school, huh?  (Told you Apple computers were cool—ours gave me game in the third grade!)
     Anyway, back to my half-slip mess.  I want you to know I tried to wear a full slip with my dress today, but it was too long.  It’s now bed time, there’s no full moon, and I’m still looking for my slip.  I don’t think I can sleep until I find it.  So so sad.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011


     The world population reached 7 billion yesterday.  Try to get your heads around that.  While you’re doing that I’ll scream “PLANETARIUM.”  I hate the planetarium.  (And if I ever get on the show Inside the Actors Studio, my least favorite world will be “planetarium.”  Similar to how Sean Penn’s favorite curse word was “dentist.”)  I hate how when you’re there and looking up at some pie graph on the ceiling, the guide tells you how the time humans have been on this earth is equivalent to 24 hours or some other very small time increment as compared to the time the world has existed.  It makes one feel insignificant (I’m not disagreeing that we’re anything but insignificant, but a couple hours at the planetarium listening to that garbage makes me feel terrible and has led to my incredible fear of death.  So if I ever have kids their dad can volunteer for the field trips and take them to the planetarium.  There’s no freaking way I’m going there.)
     Back to the 7 billion; that’s a lot of people to consider.  Oddly, the owner of the company where I work recently asked me how many people I thought had actually lived on this planet at one time or another.  I chose not to scream PLANETARIUM in his face, but instead to answer.  I don’t remember my response, but it was much larger than the actual number, which I think is 107 billion. 
     As another aside, some of the powers that be think that the seven billionth person was born in India, since so many babies are born there per minute.  The baby was a girl.  India’s actually appointing 7 girl babies to symbolize the 7 billion.  It’s interesting the country chose girls, and probably a good thing, because many girl children are never born due to abortion. Many Indian families choose not to have girls due to the cultural importance imparted onto male children.  When pregnant women learn of their baby’s female gender they (or their families make the decision to abort) abort the female fetuses.  That’s another lovely topic you might need some time to get your head around.  But I do think that sonograms have been outlawed now due to how common the practice was becoming...

Monday, October 31, 2011


     I wanted to scream trick or treat the other night on my date.  As in is this a trick?  I thought that getting wine should be a treat, as in you Mr. Date would treat me to my wine--not so. We met at a wine bar for drinks.  Drinks only.  (As an aside, I’d like to mention that the wine bar served free chees appetizers that night.)  We each had 2 glasses of wine (Yes I realize this date fell during my 21 Day Challenge when alcohol was forbidden but I scrapped the rules in lieu of living my life and going on a normal date…but was it really that normal?). When the check came my date asked the waiter to put part of our wine tab on one credit card—his work credit card and the other portion of our wine tab on his personal credit card. You see, my date’s company allows him to expense up to $25 on non-meal items (apparently, like the wine you drink on first dates).  So my date figured out the bill and how he was going to expense our date—excuse me, part of our date—to his company.  He calculated the bill so that it came up as $23 on his work credit card—he didn’t want to make it too close to $25, because the company would figure it out. 
     Figure it out?  How about you figure this out—it’s tacky to cheap out on the first date.  My two glasses of wine for $20 were too expensive for you that you had to expense it?  Really?  I'll tell you what was worth the $20, the time and effort it took me to get ready for that date and walk there in the rain.  My eye makeup was perfect that night.  Absolutely perfect.  
     This surprised me.  But hey I guess I’m getting the bottom of the barrel since I’m still dating at 35.  Funny thing—my friend who set Mr. Expense Account and me up mentioned that one of her worst first dates happened when the guy asked her to choose where they were going to eat dinner from an array of coupons he fanned out in front of her like a hand of cards in a game of Go Fish.  I haven’t told her about this expense account business.  But I consider it akin to making one choose a coupon for dinner. 

Sunday, October 30, 2011


     I've been meaning to write about my family's (really my Dad's) passion for Apple computers since Steve Jobs died a couple weeks ago.  So even though this post is late, it's better late than never.
     When Dad brought home our first computer, we were one of the only families on our block that had a Macintosh computer.  But it was the only kind of computer he'd even consider buying.  Dad liked the sleek look, he liked the features, and he really liked the different.  That's what Macs were--different.
     We continued on that streak with more Macs, iMacs, and now Mac Book Pros.  I'll admit to deviating from that Apple lineage twice--once in college for a Macintosh clone and then in law school for a laptop that was a PC.  But I eventually saw the light and came back to all things Apple.
     I don't think Dad even knew how to operate a PC.  So that's saying something Apple.  You hooked one guy and he did a good job getting his family to stay true to you too.

Saturday, October 29, 2011


     Well my Mr. Peanut costume is no longer a wish.  Thanks to my dear friend, who sewed it herself, it's come to life.  I'll be wearing it tonight to a costume party.  I've got all the accessories: top hat, white gloves, spats and monocle.  Now I just need to find a cane in the next couple of hours and we're good to go!

Friday, October 28, 2011


     Nowadays, many of us put our whole lives on display.  Exhibit A: this blog.  Exhibit B: using social media sites.  Now that’s all well and good when I personally control the content; but when someone posts on my Facebook wall something that I for one consider to be a private message then don’t be mad when I promptly (Ok, I didn’t delete it immediately.  It took a day.  I complained to my sister about it, who suggested I delete it and then went on to explain why she’s not on Facebook.  Did I mention she’s a lot smarter than me?  Well she is.) delete it. 
     I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing or not.  Either way my Indian relatives are very blunt.  Exhibit C: a cousin of mine recently posted a message on my Facebook wall saying something close to the following “it’s nice to see these pictures of you.  But you’re always around other girls.  Never any boys.  When are you going to find someone to marry and settle down?” 
     Excuse me?  Who writes that on someone’s public wall?  Did she think that was a nice message?  I found it rude and a tad embarrassing.  She couldn’t have saved it for an email message or a private Facebook message or not written it at all.  Part of me wanted to retort with a snarky response or write back that I’m a lesbian, which for the record I am not.  Instead, I quietly deleted the post and vented about it in this blog. That’s what I call healthy and controlling my situation. 
     And for anyone who cares, I had a date last night.  To keep it real, I disobeyed the rules of this 21 Day Challenge/Cleanse (praise be to G-d, that I’m on Day 19) and drank alcohol. Two glasses of wine thank you very much.  Plus, I had a date on Tuesday night as well.  So yes there are guys around, they’re just not in my pictures.  I mean who takes a camera on a first or second date—disregard the one on your phone.  You know what I mean.  Imagine taking a picture of all your first dates.  Or all your fifth dates.  Or your twenty third dates (unless it’s a special occasion, costume party, wedding, you get the drift).  It’s just plain weird. 
     So why do you and your girlfriends take pictures at all the events that would be the equivalent of fifth dates if we were with a guy you may ask.  Because we do.  We just do.

Thursday, October 27, 2011


     I own three pairs of rain boots and don't live in a particularly wet climate,  I purchased my first pair, a cheapie, black, short pair, not for rain, but for my first trip to Mardi Gras in an effort to protect my feet while stepping in or trying to avoid stepping in other people's vomit, urine, beer slosh and hurricane juice.  Result--those little black rain boots worked like a charm.  They're oh so easy to clean off.
     The second pair came from London.  Who doesn't buy a pair of hunter green, sleek Marc Jacobs, rain boots with a heel for 75% off in July at Harvey Nichols?  Ummmmmmmm, no one can pass up that fashion deal.  However, I'd like to point out that my sister rolled her eyes at me and gave me the "don't-you-complain-how-heavy-your-bag-is" look when I started to whine about how my shoulder hurt from carrying my precious boots all around Piccadilly Circus.
     My third pair of rain boots are fire engine red and were a Target special.  Literally.  I bought them on sale at Target, mostly because they were cute and red and definitely not because I needed them.
     so who needs three pairs of rain boots, even though she lives in Dallas?  A girl who's Dad loved Paddington bear and told us to always be prepared--contingency plan, he called it.
     Can you tell it's raining here in Dallas today?  I wore my red boots to work--everyone loved them.  And I'm wearing my green ones tonight to go out because they're fancy!

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


     Would now be a good time to mention the World Series?  I do live in Dallas for crying out loud.  The energy in this city feels amazing right now.  We've been lucky to see the Mavs win the NBAChampionship and to host the Super Bowl all in 2011.  And hopefully the Rangers will win tomorrow night!

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


     Yesterday, I entered a cookie contest--to be a guest judge of the contest.  Here's my contest essay:

I’d love to be a judge for this year’s The Dallas Morning News-Central Market Holiday Cookie Contest.  The top 3 reasons you should select me to help judge the cookies are:
1.    I’m a real live cookie monster, but prefer the moniker “cookie connoisseur.”  Additionally, I’m flesh and bone, not blue fur.  Since I know all of the local cookie shops, I’d like to experience tasting cookies baked by Dallasites and see how well they fare compared to the store-bought treats I usually eat.
2.    When people think of holiday cookies, most people think about Christmas.  But I’m Jewish.  Sometimes I feel left out of typical holiday traditions and getting to be a judge for the cookie contest would allow me to be a part of something in a different, fun and delicious way.
3.    I'm currently on Day 15 of a 21 Day food challenge in which I can eat no sugar.  I’m craving cookies like nobody’s business.  My palate has been cleansed and I’m ready to judge!
I look forward to hearing from you and joining the contest as a guest judge.  It would be an honor to be a part of the contest.
I wonder if I'll win...

Monday, October 24, 2011


     Who knew Dallas had fog.  I had an eerie drive to work this morning.  Dense fog covered my entire route.  I didn't feel like I was in Dallas.  Rather, it felt like the cast of a vampire movie.  So creepy.  Yet cool at the same time.
     Did you know London doesn't really have that much fog?  (Thank you MAd Men for that bit of trivia.  can we please get to 2012 already?--when we'll get to see new episodes of that show?  I miss it!)  The fog that used to engulf London came from pollution instead of weather and now, due to clean air act rules, there's not much fog at all.  Plus, London Fog (the coat company) was a company started in the U.S. and originally called Londontown clothing company.  

Sunday, October 23, 2011


     My mom wasn't the best driver.  Or that's what my dad said about her.  In fact he was pretty relentless about it.  That was his thing to tease her about--not driving well and getting her license as an adult.
     Mommy grew up in Brooklyn, NY and never had to drive anywhere.  She took the subway or walked to all of her destinations.  So she didn't get her driver's license until she was married, lived in Ohio and was twenty-four (or thereabouts).
     Imagine getting your license at twenty-four.  It'd be strange.  Super strange.  And probably a bit scary.  The deck was stacked against her as she learned to drive as an adult and it became fodder for my dad's jokes.
     I'll admit noticing she was a bit of a nervous driver.  But I never thought she was a bad driver.  Dad perpetuated that myth to the point where it became unfair.  It's not really your fault or your bad driving if a rock, kicked up by an eighteen wheeler, hits your windshield and crakes it.  However, that wasn't the case in my house growing up.  You broke it, you bought it was basically my dad's motto.  More like, I think you broke it, so you broke it.  That's how Dad decided it was Mom's fault that the Honda's windshield cracked.            
     That's also how Dad decided that I caused his Nissan's flat tire.  You see I'd convinced the neighborhood kids to help me build a clubhouse.  We'd find pieces of wood in various empty lots, drag them to the side of my house and start nailing them together in a ramshackle fashion.  We never completed the clubhouse.  If we had, it would have been pretty sad--a one room shack with no place to move around. We would've all been standing in that clubhouse shoulder to shoulder.  It would have been tiny.  Good thing I didn't go into architecture.
     Anyway, back to how Dad's flat tire was my fault.  Well, I used nails to build the clubhouse, so naturally a nail caused Dad's flat.  It doesn't really help my case that he found some nails spilled on the floor of our garage right around the time of the flat.  But (now) as a lawyer, I'd like to point out there were many other places a nail could've been on the streets or parking lots Dad frequented.  But I'll give up now, because it was my fault, almost like the shattered windshield was Mom's fault.  That's just the way it was.