The rain in Spain falls mainly in the resaca

Surreptitious - done, made or acquired by stealth. Synonym: clandestine, secret. (Webster's)

Now you know and knowing is half the battle.

I'm drinking a glass of water and going to my bed where I will try very hard not to dream about lakes, rivers or resacas*.

* (A resaca is an elongated inlet of water. Brownsville is full of them. Apparently that word is not in the Webster's dictionary.)

The fat man in red might get a tan if he sticks around

It's 68 degrees and sunny. I'm going outside to play now.

Merry Christmas everybody!

Where have you been, who do you know, who have you seen?

When I arrived in my hometown Brownsville (the one that summons me whenever there's a break or holiday) last night, I was greeted by my gorgeous mother. We went to baggage claim, where many others were with their own families, exchanging hugs, looking happy and tired and relieved to be home in the land of Spanglish and good food.

First person I saw
My hand was on my mom's shoulder when I saw a single young man with touseled long hair and horn-rimmed glasses carrying a bag that read "Germany." I knew him -- he's my friend Lib's boyfriend who surely was flying in from Germany to spend holiday break with her. Now that I think about it, it's kind of odd that his bag would read "Germany" and not "Deutschland" or something. Maybe it's easier to find merchandise with your country's name in the U.S. because it's only here that people look at the things you wear/carry and think you're very global and sophisticated for having something with another country's name on it. But the German boyfriend happens to be from over there so he's global anyway. So there you have it. Anyway, I called Lib and approached the German beau, who looked rather wild-eyed and tired. Not knowing what was going on, he kept asking, "where's Lib-ah-tee?" My excitement to be home, to see him, to hopefully see my friends might have been too much for this poor chap. I hugged him enthusiastically and said, "you must be so tired" and then Lib and her room mate Nic showed up and after making plans to see each other at their "cheesy sweater" party on Friday, we were gone.

Next people I saw
My mom took me straight to the bar, where my brother was playing and my dad was saving a seat for my weary ass. As I showed my ID and passed the bouncer called "Shrek," I saw the first boy I ever kissed. He's the kind of boy I'm not embarrassed to have had my first kiss with -- he didn't turn out to be homely or a loser -- but I am embarrassed about how immature I was at the tender age of 12 when I broke up with him and called him "gay" in front of his friends. I run into him every few years and he's always gracious and a tad on the defensive side when I ask about how he's doing. "I own a condo." That's what he said when I ran into him last month over Thanksgiving break at the very same spot.

I waved and he put his hand on my waist and gave me the Brownsville nice-to-see-you kiss on the cheek. There was no talk of his condo this time and I said I'm meeting my dad and moved on.

I found my dad sitting with two girls my age (friends of my brother's) and ordered a Dos Equis with lime. We tried talking over the music and laughed at random things when I saw an old friend from high school.

Other people I saw
The thing I remember most about this particular guy is his somewhat blind confidence -- we were in choir together and every day he told me, "leave your boyfriend and run away with me." Then he would come to my boyfriend's car and ask if could go to lunch with us. Most of the time we let him.

After high school, he started hanging out with my brother. He was the singer in one of my brother’s bands and had a strange voice, kind of a mix between Creed’s Scott Stapp and Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder. When he sang, girls seemed to like him, but he had a bizarre habit of touching his pants zipper. I wonder if anyone noticed or cared. Eventually the band disbanded and he went off to college.

When I saw him, I was genuinely happy to see him. I’ve always seen him as a more intense, prone to craziness version of my brother. He had a beer in his hand and when I asked him how he was doing, he said, “I’m doing better than I have in a long, long time.” No talk of a condo, just a real answer. He sat at my table of interesting characters (my dad, a quiet teacher girl my age – everyone my age in this town is either a teacher or working for their parents – , my brother’s girlfriend and her best friend) and told me how talented he thinks my brother is.

The band started to play “Creep” and my little friend got up to dance. Then I witnessed something very “creepy.” A 40-something woman wearing a black t-shirt and jeans that accentuated her very prominent camel-toe came to dance with him. He was good natured enough to go along with it, but somewhere along the way, his arms were wrapped around her thick waist and he slow danced with this stranger throughout the rest of the song. He mouthed the words, “…I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here. I don’t belong here…” with the conviction of a southern Baptist minister as he held on tight. The quiet teacher girl and I looked at each other and watched him dodge his new friend the rest of the night.

I could tell you more about how later on I saw one of camel-toe lady’s friends come out in her wheelchair and sway to “Glycerin” and nearly knocking over a microphone; or four really tall white guys who looked like they got lost on their way to Sweden; or a guy who was in my man M’s and my World Literature class six years ago whose name and face I couldn’t remember. But I just wanted to tell you about the real weirdos, creeps and interesting cats.

You know, the ones I am lucky enough to know.

In case the fat man in red reads this blog...

I want:

A scarf
Running shoes (light weight, size 7 1/2)
"Art of Copywriting" book
Hand towels (gold, for the powder room)
Gardenia-scented Bath & Body Works products
80s-style workout shorts (NO spandex please)
Red panties (for New Year's...it's tradition)
A gift certificate to a spa (for a massage preferably)
New bedding (I'm thinking white theme with Mexican-style crocheted top blanket)
A special rag to clean my gee-tar
Lucky jeans because they make asses look great

I'm off to put this list on my refrigerator. And then I'll do some laundry. Exciting stuff, I tell ya.

Thank you, thank you...you people are too kind

In the last 24 hours, these things were said to me.

- "These are better than my mom's!" (quothe Jessica in reference to my deviled eggs that apparently are better than her mom's.)

- "You're sexy like a girl." (quothe my lovely man M who is so yummy I will eat him, especially if he keeps saying crazy things like that.)

I'm easy to please.

Premature lunacy brought on by indulgent lunacy

Have you ever been so depressed that you actually kind of like being depressed? That your big roaring cry feels so good, you can't imagine anything better than sobbing and blowing your nose? That you look in the mirror and think your pink nose looks nice on you?

And then it's over and you feel like a new person, like you can blog or face your biggest fear or something.

I've indulged myself today (hm, Lecram -- must've been reading my mind). Work was let out at 1:00 and my coworker and I went to have a drink at the sort of place that forgives you when you go have a drink at 1:00 in the afternoon. Yes, ladies and gentlemen -- a Cajun dive bar. I had four Scotch and waters. Don't look at me like that -- mojitos aren't allowed in the cold weather!

And while the drinks might have brought on this sudden bought of lunacy, it's been building for a while. And I do believe this lunacy is coming to an end. It has to. Although I cannot describe it or put it in a category, if I HAD to, I'd say I've just had a sort of breakdown -- the kind that everyone needs once every four or five months. Mini breakdowns that literally break one down so one can build oneself up again so that one may resemble a phoenix of sorts. From our teary ashes we rise and are able to be ourselves again: normal, happy, loving, free. If one can get over the exhaustion that comes with the heaving and blowing.

On a lighter note, I have a name for my guitar. It's not definite, but for the moment, I've decided on Paco Woody Silverman. And last night I was antisocial enough to comment on other blogs, look up guitar chords and look at jobs on monster.com. Not that I'm looking -- old habits die hard, that's all.

I think...

1. People talk about me. And the less I talk to them, the more shit they make up. And I care because...
2. Winter is dumb and it's stupid, too.
3. I've been way too negative lately.
3 1/2. I'm fucking whiney and need to grow up.
4. But it's only because I'm going through a lot (which isn't all that much...all work-related I guess, and the icky holidays that make me miss home so much I just want to take a big nap and wake up when the summer comes back). Stomping my foot as I say that.
5. Pantyhose are just as comfortable as socks.
6. I need to write more.
7. I need to cook more.
8. It's going to snow tonight.
9. My imagination is my salvation sometimes.
10. I see where this is going...I'm going to be antisocial and write tonight. Maybe I'll even decide on a name for my guitar. (I promise when I come back I'll be more chipper. Yucky, yucky cold weather.) Stay warm, homefry.