Tuesday, June 28, 2005

A tale of two separate occurrences of mildly sapphic proportions

For the final game, my man M and I met some of his co-workers at a snazzy bar in Alamo Heights. The place was packed and our party was scattered throughout the bar. M and I sat at the first table we saw for the duration of one beer and after I was done, I scampered off to find more friends.

My friends were in the back of the bar, the hot part, but looking quite happy and jovial. Next to them were some casually-dressed tall women. They had the same general look about them — short hair, no makeup, athletic build...— with the exception of two women. One was older, short in stature and far from athletic. The other was the oddball. She had long blond hair and carried a purse. My group was definitely different from the other one, but our differences were of no consequence because we were all there for one reason: to see the Spurs win the finals.

Time passed in quarters and I committed to that spot. My man M could fend for himself on the other side of the bar. Our idiot waiter looked like Mr. Bean and thought that one hour was a fine amount of time to leave me without a beer. (His tip: one dollar and 25 cents…and a note telling him to never piss off a Mexican half-breed. Okay, not really.) The group of ladies next to us ate and watched the game, cheering when we cheered and cursing Detroit when we did. The dominant topic of conversation at my table was the wonders of Metamucil and Special K cereal.

I swear I wake up some days and think I’m 50. But I’m not. Not even close. Have you ever seen my shoes? How ‘bout my exceptional rack? Anyway.

The blond girl got up and left her purse. One of the other girls picked it up and said, “what doesn’t belong in this picture?” I thought it was mean. But funny.

That was pretty much the point of the story. That, the Spurs won, and I got drunk and ended up asking my table who’s had butt sex. No one admitted to it.

Part 2

On Saturday night, my man M and I had a hankering for Mexican food. Kind of a last hurrah before moving to a land where Caucasians run wild and think that Taco Bell tastes good.

Don’t even get me started.

Anyway, we drove around for about 45 minutes before the hunger alarm really started to go off and I was either going to rip my arm off, dip it in the sticky coffee spillage on the gear shifter and eat it, or suggest the unimaginable: Applebee’s.

So we went to Applebee’s.

I wasn’t surprised to see that it was karaoke night when we sat down. The smoking section of the restaurant was checkered with characters – a big lady who reminded me of Mama Cass sat at the bar and sang “Blue Bayou,” a mullet-sporting guy named Billy who was celebrating his birthday with what looked like piña coladas…Mama Cass sang him a breathy rendition of “Happy Birthday” estilo Marilyn Monroe – I almost puked when I heard that – and a few cowboys donning their finest Stetsons sat quietly to Mama Cass’ left, sipping their beers.

A dishwater blond sang “I Touch Myself” and dedicated to our waitress. M suggested we sing a song.

“We’re going to need more drinks,” I said.

After we ate, we looked at the song list. There was no need to look at it – I only know one song in the whole wide world and if someone had already sung it, I wasn’t going to sing at all.

I asked the waitress, “has anyone already sung ‘Me and Bobby McGhee’?”

“No, but you will, baby.” She tapped my arm and did a little laugh that reminded me of Beyonce in “Austin Powers” when she said, “…and I’m a whole LOTTA woman!”

M went first, singing “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole. Afterward, one of the drunk cowboys came up to him and gave him a big speech about how they were the only two motherfuckers in the whole bar who knew that song and he’s a “classical kind of guy” and no one can sing “Nessum Dorma” like Pavarotti, etc. Our waitress came around and he joked with her like a true regular. He pulled her near him and he opened his mouth close to her chest and said, “feed me, mama!” She pulled away and laughed and went to the next table. The cowboy looked at us and said, “you know, she’s as lesbian as they come.”

So I didn’t feel bad after the fifth time he told M to use his “power voice,” when I couldn’t help but chuckle. The cowboy snapped, “don’t laugh at me!” I turned around to face the karaoke screen and continued laughing.
Then I sang my song and the cowboy shut up for a while. Mama Cass was now afraid. Very afraid.

M and I had more drinks and the cowboy came back to ask when he was going to sing another song. The agreeable Mr. M sang “Danny Boy” and Mama Cass decided to sing along. Loudly. I forgave her rudeness because, well, she was afraid.

Then I sang another song. This time it was “Me and Mrs. Jones.” I messed up the end because I told you, I only know one song and one song only. The waitress came around once in a while during the song and without any ounce of shame, mind you, grabbed my behind – twice.

She liked the song, I guess.

Mama Cass was leaving and I told her she had a nice voice. “Thanks,” she said. I asked her if she was a regular. “Only when I’m in town,” she said. “I do voice work…so I’m everywhere.”

Bye, Mama Cass, I guess I’ll see you when I’m in town, too.

M put away the cowboy’s business card – he’s not really a cowboy…he’s an engineer – and we “Randalled” out of the place before the end of the song, “Because I Got High.”

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Anti-climax...chapter 5

In the last hour, I've welcomed a weary M back into our home after a long day of exit interviews, paperwork, teary good-byes and looking at hooters at Hooter's. I heated up some jalapeño poppers, ate them and watched Jeopardy!.

Things I didn't do, you ask? E-mail some people I was supposed to (it's all about the contacts, man), call some people I was supposed to (I'm always like 7 phone calls behind) and throw away those phone books. You read right, too -- I'm going to THROW them away. Recycling's for pussies and it's not THAT good for the environment. Watch Penn and Teller Bullshit! on Showtime and you'll see what I mean. I said 'recycling' earlier just to be nice.

This experiment has been detrimental to my productivity. And I still don't know Photoshop. I feel a bad mood coming on. Stepping away (politely) from the dark side.

Ahem. On the lighter side, it feels like a Friday. Having M around all the time is going to feel like college again. My schedule's going to feel weird at first because I'm so used to being alone all day, but it's a welcomed change. I like him and stuff.

That brings this queer experiment to an end. Good night, folks. Hasta mañana!

Chapter 4: Splaining

Mr. M has now come home and I wonder: do I really want to keep my promise of posting five times in one day? I know Ryan's bored, but there is a wide world of Internet to look at. It's probably better than the dullness you may find here. I said probably. Ha! Anyway, I'd like to hear what he has to say about his last day at work.

In an effort to retain blog cred, I am sticking to my word. In light of last days at work, I remember mine was surreal. I was so happy to be leaving a place that I hated so, so much, but conflicted with feelings of guilt, fear, sadness, anger. That night some of my work friends and I went bar hopping downtown and I ended up talking to some cross-eyed girl about how cheap leather is in Italy and puking out the passenger window of my car. I see it as a purgation of all the badness that had accumulated during my year at that place.

More randomness: my socks are maroon.

Cleaning house (chapter 3 of the dull series)

Despite the fact that laundry has now invaded my life, I'm feeling quite mellow. It's the Sublime coming out of my speakers. Just waiting for Mr. M to come home from Hooter's. The creatives wanted to take him out for lunch on his very last day of work. Yep, it's really real. We're moving.

I really ought to start weeding through our things and throwing away unnecessary shit: do we really need to keep an empty can of Dos Equis signed by Dave Foley? Okay, maybe we'll keep that. But how 'bout the seven or eight phone books we've been too lazy to recycle? Or the ten thousand BrandWeeks left over from Mr. M's media days (quite a nice perk of the biz, but we can't keep them in the RR and pretend to read them anymore)...

Gonna mess around with Photoshop now. It's infuriating sometimes, but I like to learn...

If I can tear myself away from this orange-scented fabric softener, I present you with chapter 2

My sandwich gave me special powers. In the last hour, I put a load of laundry into the washer and cleaned my kitchen. Big C called me to brag about the helote* he was about to eat. I'm not jealous. I had helote in a cup on the way back from Brownsville.

Random thought: I enjoy Wes Anderson movies very much. His lead characters are borderline crazy with just enough hubris to make them interesting and pathetic enough to evoke sympathy. Oh, that his genius may be contagious.

I also enjoy my new orange-scented fabric softener from Restoration Hardware. And the song, Mambo Italiano. It makes me dance.

* An helote is corn dressed with mayonnaise, lime, butter, white cheese and chile. It can be eaten on the cob or in a cup. Don't knock it 'till you try it. Seriously. It'll rock your world...if your arteries can handle it.

Adventures in deconstruction, a rather dull series, chapter 1

Just so you know, this is the first installment of five posts to appear today in this particular corner of the Web. I shall try to post every hour with a tidbit of my day, a random thought, a story or suicide note (just checking if you're paying attention).

At this moment, I'm really into my bologna, ham and white cheese sandwich. Jealous? You should be. It's gorgeous. I passed on the pickles because I'm not feeling very pickly. I'm also having a very intimate moment with Ben Harper who is singing to me right now. He always has to steal his kisses from me because I'm coy like that.

Ta for now!

Tuesday, June 21, 2005


I went to Brownsville for the weekend to see my dad for Father's Day and, well, to get away from the mucky muck of the land of smog and tourists. As a Father's Day present, I cleaned my dad's house and gave him a framed picture of me. Because I'm nice like that.

For dinner, my dad had two requests. He wanted to eat in a place that would let him have a cigarette and watch the Spurs game. So, poof, we went to a seedy sports bar that is special to me because I love their wings and once they let me have a beer when I was 18.

But that's beside the point.

The conversation came in spurts: between watching the game and eating like ravenous, ravenous beasts, the conversation went as follows.

My dad: "It must have been hard living in the Wild West. When people got sick, they most likely died. When people had sex, they most likely had babies. You know, syphillis came from sheep."

My man M and me: "Oh?"

[sidenote: Yes, my dad DOES talk about these things. ]

Dad: "Yep. Those sheep lovers should have just gone out and found themselves a watermelon patch. People used to do that, you know."

Us: "They used to do what?"

Dad: "You know." (He took a drag from his cigarette.)

My man M: "That's weird. I bet the kids did that when I lived in Dilley. It's the watermelon capital of the world."

Me: "Really?"

My man M: "Yeah. I wonder what I would've done if I had stayed in Dilley. I probably wouldn't be in advertising. I would've probably picked watermelons..."

Me: "Over women?"

I'm glad he didn't stay in Dilley -- not that there's anything wrong with it.

Oh, and by the way, yes...we're moving to Dallas.

Friday, June 17, 2005

The chapter Christopher Robin never told you about

San Antonio = Safe.

Dallas = Daring.

Think, think, think. Mmmm...I like hunny.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

The importance of movement (and escaping the place where dreams go to die)

In my last place of employment, I worked with two other girls: Mandy and Amy. Mandy was 28, had the same birthday as me, knew every lyric to every song on the radio, was pretty, but slouched too much and had the most infectious laugh. She sat to my left. Amy was 26, had freckles, was a master manipulator, always kept her cool and had some really enviable knockers. Her laugh sounded like a cackle. She sat across from me.

The three of us were the pre-cogs, the trinity of bitches who talked to no one but each other and a few of the party boys in the other department to see what they were doing for lunch or happy hour. We worked together, ate lunch together, talked about everything and guarded our privacy from the “dead hearts” and everyone else like it was the key to the oracle of truth. We hated the dead hearts and the dead hearts hated no one because there is no hate when your heart is dead. I learned a lot about human nature in the year I spent at that company -- the ugliness of greed and deception; the paralysis of fear; the camaraderie that forms in the face of adversity; and the spirit's ability to keep going after terrible things happen to you. Terrible things like cancer.

It was a particularly slow afternoon and Mandy and I talked quietly as usual. Amy strategically placed her head on her desk with her pen in her hand, claiming to have a migraine. We had turned off the overhead lights and used our desk lamps to see our “work.” In a short time, Amy fell asleep and Mandy and I kept talking.

Mandy had been back at work only two weeks and it was obvious that she was still recovering from her surgery. She strained to move a stack of papers to the other desk.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked me.

“A writer. You?”

“Nothing. I want to marry rich and shop all day,” she said.

“Did you think that when you were little?” I asked.

She thought for a while. “No. I didn’t think about anything when I was little.”

“You must have had some dreams, though. Like, what do you want to do when you get out of this place?”

“I don’t know. You?”

“I’m not sure. Send out some resumes, talk to people…I guess just try and get another job. One where there aren’t any dead hearts. I just know I can’t stay here. This is the place where dreams come to die. It’s too depressing.”

She stayed quiet for a long time. I looked at my stack of papers, the clock, then at Amy, who was still sleeping on her stack and holding her pen. Mandy spoke again.

“I just can’t believe I’ve spent four years here and I have nothing to show for it. I went to school, busted my ass and now I’m here. I’m at the same point I was when I graduated, but worse somehow. It's like my 'problem' keeps coming back and I can't move forward. I have no idea what I want to do, you know?”

We never talked openly about her 'problem', although I knew what she meant.

“It’s hard,” I said.

“I don’t want to work anymore. I hate being a grown-up. I just wish I was young again!” She started to cry.
“Excuse me,” she said, getting up.

When Mandy came back, I asked her if she was okay.

“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. She kind of laughed. “I have issues.”

Two months later, Mandy did in fact leave. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do but she kept moving. That’s the important thing.

*Names have been changed to protect the unsure.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Vegetable musings

Currently listening to: Luis Miguel's rendition of "Perfidia." (totally stolen)

M and I have decided to dance to "Aguas de Marche" as our "first dance" as Mr. and Mrs. Deconstructionist (because he will take MY name) at our wedding -- which I suppose will happen in the next 7-10 years.

[Our "vegetable love should grow/Vaster than empires, and more slow..."]

You may have heard it on Sealab 2021 in the episode where Marco dies. It's a duet, obscure and in Portuguese. It's us. Sort of. I just can't imagine us dancing to Shania Twain or Edwin McCain. Maybe Biz Markie, though.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Slow and steady...meh

I found this on blogthings.
I'm not pleased with my results.

Slow and Steady
Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy.

They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder.

It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment.

They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

If I seem to be a bit crazy this morning, it's only because I hear voices

These are combinations of words that make me happy.
1. Here's your orange juice.
2. We're here.
3. I'm home.
4. I miss you.
5. I love you.
6. Let's dance.
7. What's up, Toots?
8. Thank you.
9. I have a crush on you.
10. How was your day?

Saturday, June 04, 2005

No mames! Brownsville and Selena forever

Hair: Straight
Substances ingested today: Two cups of coffee, four glasses of water, a Bud Light, two cookies, two powdered doughnut holes and a fillet of salmon (spiced with dill weed, worchestershire sauce and butter, upon the recommendation of my good friend, Big C/Bart/the gentleman...whatever alias he chooses for the blogosphere).
Glasses: On
Movies watched today: Two -- "Bad Education" starring my future husband Gael Garcia Bernal and "The Aviator" starring my estranged ex-boyfriend Leonardo DiCaprio.
Randiness level: I'm not telling.
What I will tell you: Reasons to raise your kids in Brownsville, Texas

1. Since the population is roughly 91% Hispanic, there is a heavy Spanish influence on the language. "Tex-Mex" or "Spanglish" is prevalent there and during one's lingual formative years, it is not uncommon to pick up some words such as:

2. "No mames!" An expression commonly used in disbelief or scoff, meaning (literally) "don't suck." Used in the same way as "shut the eff up" or "no way." Example: "Lily told me she was going to the party and I was like, no mames, you're going to stay home and call Petey." Then her friend Oli says, "No mames, you told her that? Dude, you got balls. You're lucky she doesn't give you a...

3. "Vaño!" Comes from the word, "baño," meaning "bath," however the outcome of this sort of "vaño" is not one of cleanliness. Most commonly heard in parking lots, school hallways and anywhere else a group of Brownsvillian boys would be seen. Once the battle-cry "vaño!" is shouted, a hapless member of the pack gets socked by all the other members of the pack. It's a sort of rite of passage and usually doesn't lead to a serious fight.

4. "Caga-palo" which literally means "shit stick." It is used to describe a rather rambunctious or mischevious person.

5. "Pendejo," always the classic insult. Its origins are rooted deep within the Spanish language, but it's a word one hears with frequency in Brownsville. Used in the same way as "eff-ing idiot" or "eff-ing moron."

6. "Piojos" are what boys and girls get from going to elementary school (and when they don't eat their vegetables). It's just a fact of life. My brother got piojos twice and my mom had to wash his hair out with a special shampoo. It wasn't pretty.

Friday, June 03, 2005

"Massage me," said the bruised ego

This has been a shit of a week. In the past two and a half months, I've sent out about 20 resumes and have been ignored/rejected about 20 times. [Cue sad violin music]

Ranting continues for another four or five lines.

What the fuck am I doing? I have the right mind to go and be a barrista, ya arrogant mutherfuckers! Am I unhireable?!??!!? What the fuck, people??!!?!? I tell ya, advertising is a tough business to crack. Coffee-making...not so much. Goals flying out the window as ambition falls to pieces.

Okay, so not really. I just wanted to be a little melodramatical (and ignore the rules of grammar in a small attempt at humerical relief).

Going to play kitten war now. I'll come back when my ego feels better.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

If kitties didn't exist, I'd never buy calendars

LtFlux and I really need pets. Kitties to be exact.

touch the kitty

They're too cute. We can't help ourselves.

Letter to the matriarch

This is a letter to my grandma in Mexico.


Hola, ¿cómo estás? Yo estoy bien. Sabes, el otro día, cociné unas sincronizadas* que salieron con madres. Les gustó mucho a mis amigos, que estaban bien crudos por tanto tequila que tomaron la noche antes. Ya sé lo que estás pensando: que pendejos por ser borrachos, pero la verdad es que son un poco retrasados de la cabeza y me hacen reir. Por eso los quiero -- por tontos.

Te extraño y saludos a todos.

Te quiere,
Ms. Deconstructionist

*Sincronizadas are ham and cheese sandwiches, but made with tortillas instead of bread. And they're fried. Viva Mexico, cabrones!

Internal melee, part deux

Hey, hey, hey...drink beer every day! Is it wrong to have a beer at 9 in the morning? Yeah, putting it back in the fridge...I'll see you later, lover.

leave the beer

I'll stick to coffee for now.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

I can see your ni-nis

Quotes to illustrate this weekend at "Camp Empire":

"Daddy's dirty! Draw me a bath..."


"Ni-nis..." (to quote the Scottish gal who was talking about nipples)

"This tent is bloody huge!" (again, the Scottish gal)

"Those bitches are hot." (big C -- always the gentleman)

"Your boob is out."

"Ari's back." (referring to Scott's Jewish alter ego, who only came out at night)

"No, I'm not coming out in the rain...I'm going to sit in my tent and piss in my beer can!"

You had to be there, I guess. Trust me, it was fun and by the way, I love air conditioning. And my bed.