I'm in Austin, Texas, this week -- went to a conference and am now taking the weekend to explore and/or raise hell.
I decided to start that process last night, even though my conference didn't end till noon today (and yes, I did make the 8:30 breakfast session, which is impressive even when I haven't been out frolicking the previous night). Seeing as this is Texas, after all, I felt like I needed to find myself some country music. Yes, I know that Austin is famous for all kinds of music, which is why I'm headed to Sixth Street after I finish this and find myself a good steak. Which, this being Texas, I also feel like I need to do.
Anyway, my concierge recommended the Broken Spoke, which is somewhat of an Austin landmark, so I hopped in a cab and off I went. I'm not as much of a two-stepper/swing dancer as I am a line dancer (some of my unsuspecting friends may have just choked on that revelation), but I found some nice guys willing to let me step on their toes and made the best of it.
Trying to explain that you're in town for a grant writing conference can be difficult under the best of circumstances; in the presence of loud music and alcohol, it's pretty much impossible.
"Oh, you write? Are you a blogger?"
It was just easier to say yes, so I did. It's not like I lied; I just don't blog full time. Or for money. Or sometimes more than once in six months. But I have a blog, obviously, so therefore I am entitled to claim the title of blogger. Which I did.
We eventually established (when the band took a break) that I don't blog professionally, and that my blog has no real theme or purpose. Then the guy that I had been talking to suddenly eyed me warily and asked, "you're not going to blog about me, are you?"
"Of course I am. Just tell me your name; I'll make you famous."
"I don't want to be famous. You can just call me 'The Cool Guy.'"
So, since he was in fact cool, I will do just that. And now I will go find that steak and raise some more hell.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
"The fog comes on little cat feet."
Carl Sandburg has obviously never been to my house. There is nothing silent about the haunches moving around in here. I am certain that my downstairs neighbors moved out because they got tired of hearing the fog roll in like thunder at about 2 in the morning.
Since I last blogged about my four-legged companions, the feline contingent in my home has doubled in size. Perhaps if I spent more time blogging and less time collecting cats, I wouldn't have these problems.
The $800 alleycat will celebrate his ninth birthday on Saturday, along with at least four humans that I know. I find it rather amusing that I know so many people born on Halloween; I can't think of any other day of the year that's a common birthday for more than two or three people.
The first new addition, no longer an alleykitten, has grown into a pretty pastel tortoiseshell about half the size of her big brother. She still thinks she's tougher than he is, though.
"The littlest one" is technically a "foster cat" on a long vacation from the House of Mews. She broke her leg last summer, and it had to be amputated. She came to stay with me as she adjusted to life on three legs, and instantly developed a crush on the alleycat. It's hard to argue with true love, so she ambles about on her unique version of "cat feet" and still expects to be congratulated when she jumps onto the dining room table.
"The baby" is still technically a kitten, yet she's bigger than the littlest one (obviously). She appeared one night in the parking lot outside the restaurant where my fiance and I had just had dinner. My fiance made the mistake of saying, "oh, baby, you can't rescue all of them." Determined to prove him wrong at least once, I managed to load the wide-eyed, skittish kitten into my car. Amazingly, she rode all the way home without a sound. She has found her voice (I think the alleycat gave her some lessons), learned to like being cuddled, and enjoys chasing her older siblings around the house.
Which sounds a lot more like a stampede than fog rolling across a bay.
Since I last blogged about my four-legged companions, the feline contingent in my home has doubled in size. Perhaps if I spent more time blogging and less time collecting cats, I wouldn't have these problems.
The $800 alleycat will celebrate his ninth birthday on Saturday, along with at least four humans that I know. I find it rather amusing that I know so many people born on Halloween; I can't think of any other day of the year that's a common birthday for more than two or three people.
The first new addition, no longer an alleykitten, has grown into a pretty pastel tortoiseshell about half the size of her big brother. She still thinks she's tougher than he is, though.
"The littlest one" is technically a "foster cat" on a long vacation from the House of Mews. She broke her leg last summer, and it had to be amputated. She came to stay with me as she adjusted to life on three legs, and instantly developed a crush on the alleycat. It's hard to argue with true love, so she ambles about on her unique version of "cat feet" and still expects to be congratulated when she jumps onto the dining room table.
"The baby" is still technically a kitten, yet she's bigger than the littlest one (obviously). She appeared one night in the parking lot outside the restaurant where my fiance and I had just had dinner. My fiance made the mistake of saying, "oh, baby, you can't rescue all of them." Determined to prove him wrong at least once, I managed to load the wide-eyed, skittish kitten into my car. Amazingly, she rode all the way home without a sound. She has found her voice (I think the alleycat gave her some lessons), learned to like being cuddled, and enjoys chasing her older siblings around the house.
Which sounds a lot more like a stampede than fog rolling across a bay.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Taking Care of Friends
One of my few -- ok, probably my only -- pleasant memories of the infirmary on my college campus came in my senior year. A good friend of mine was stuck there with a genuine illness (as opposed to the self-inflicted ones that landed me there from time to time), and I was among a team of well-wishers that tried to boost her spirits. I was probably the only one who tried to cook her dinner, which I think that she actually pretended to eat.
On the particular visit that I remember best, I read aloud from The World's Best Rejection Letter. As seniors, we were all furiously applying for jobs and graduate schools and planning for The Future. The economy being in better shape back then than it is today, most of us eventually got hired. I was applying for jobs in theater, which meant that most companies apparently felt that their not-for-profit status and limited budgets absolved them from having to send out rejection letters. In response to what seemed like a hundred resumes and cover letters (back in the days before email when you had to actually print, sign, and mail such things), I received exactly one acknowledgement postcard, exactly one job offer, and The World's Best Rejection Letter.
The Letter, which included the sentence "I feel like a jerk" (I couldn't make this stuff up), came in response to my resume, which had apparently been received after the position I wanted had already been filled. The company's director, however, realized that the ad I had referenced in my cover letter actually stated that the application deadline was much later. Apparently, this oversight upset him so thoroughly that he felt compelled to apologize to me quite profusely. Unfortunately, he didn't feel compelled to change his mind and offer me the job.
By the time The Letter arrived, I had begun to despair that anyone anywhere was going to hire me. The fact that someone wrote me a letter suggesting that he had looked at my resume long enough to see which job he wasn't going to give me was a huge boost to my ego. And yes, I'm fully aware of how pathetic that sounds.
On the day that I received The Letter, I brought it to the infirmary room where my sick friend was staying and read it aloud with great expression to the genuine amusement -- and amazement -- of my friends. At that moment when The Future seemed so daunting to all of us, I think we felt better realizing that there might actually be real human beings out there in the world. And at least one of them wasn't afraid to use the word "jerk" in reference to himself.
Twelve years later, I still pull out The Letter when I need a good laugh, or a some encouragement, or a little of both. So, knowing that a friend of mine could use some of the same, I thought I'd dust off The Letter -- and my much-neglected blog -- and remind her that I'm still around to boost her spirits.
On the particular visit that I remember best, I read aloud from The World's Best Rejection Letter. As seniors, we were all furiously applying for jobs and graduate schools and planning for The Future. The economy being in better shape back then than it is today, most of us eventually got hired. I was applying for jobs in theater, which meant that most companies apparently felt that their not-for-profit status and limited budgets absolved them from having to send out rejection letters. In response to what seemed like a hundred resumes and cover letters (back in the days before email when you had to actually print, sign, and mail such things), I received exactly one acknowledgement postcard, exactly one job offer, and The World's Best Rejection Letter.
The Letter, which included the sentence "I feel like a jerk" (I couldn't make this stuff up), came in response to my resume, which had apparently been received after the position I wanted had already been filled. The company's director, however, realized that the ad I had referenced in my cover letter actually stated that the application deadline was much later. Apparently, this oversight upset him so thoroughly that he felt compelled to apologize to me quite profusely. Unfortunately, he didn't feel compelled to change his mind and offer me the job.
By the time The Letter arrived, I had begun to despair that anyone anywhere was going to hire me. The fact that someone wrote me a letter suggesting that he had looked at my resume long enough to see which job he wasn't going to give me was a huge boost to my ego. And yes, I'm fully aware of how pathetic that sounds.
On the day that I received The Letter, I brought it to the infirmary room where my sick friend was staying and read it aloud with great expression to the genuine amusement -- and amazement -- of my friends. At that moment when The Future seemed so daunting to all of us, I think we felt better realizing that there might actually be real human beings out there in the world. And at least one of them wasn't afraid to use the word "jerk" in reference to himself.
Twelve years later, I still pull out The Letter when I need a good laugh, or a some encouragement, or a little of both. So, knowing that a friend of mine could use some of the same, I thought I'd dust off The Letter -- and my much-neglected blog -- and remind her that I'm still around to boost her spirits.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
A Few of My Favorite Things
Quesadillas at R.P. Tracks. If only the train would go by...
Blue Moon, even when they don't have oranges. I keep forgetting to bring my own.
Free wi-fi.
My netbook, source of this blog post.
Hopefully my new purse will be one of my favorite things. After spending the better part of a day shopping online (following several unsuccessful in-person shopping trips), I chose a rather unusual style made from recycled candy and soda wrappers. My contribution to the "green economy." And large enough for my netbook and everything else that won't fit in the pockets of my skinny jeans.
Free shipping, for both my netbook and the purse that will eventually carry it.
Being ignored by my waiter is NOT one of my favorite things. But knowing that he just read that sentence over my shoulder makes up for it.
Off to the grocery store, also not one of my favorite things. But I'm much better prepared now than I was before I stuffed myself full of quesadilla and beer. If only the train had gone by...
Blue Moon, even when they don't have oranges. I keep forgetting to bring my own.
Free wi-fi.
My netbook, source of this blog post.
Hopefully my new purse will be one of my favorite things. After spending the better part of a day shopping online (following several unsuccessful in-person shopping trips), I chose a rather unusual style made from recycled candy and soda wrappers. My contribution to the "green economy." And large enough for my netbook and everything else that won't fit in the pockets of my skinny jeans.
Free shipping, for both my netbook and the purse that will eventually carry it.
Being ignored by my waiter is NOT one of my favorite things. But knowing that he just read that sentence over my shoulder makes up for it.
Off to the grocery store, also not one of my favorite things. But I'm much better prepared now than I was before I stuffed myself full of quesadilla and beer. If only the train had gone by...
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Second Post of 2009
Since yesterday's was the first, which didn't really occur to me until I "viewed" my blog today. I've been really bad about doing this, haven't I?
Unfortunately, this will have to be short, as I am off to stimulate the local economy by having dinner with a friend. If there were tax credits for eating out, I'd have a guaranteed refund instead of owing like I usually do.
Unfortunately, this will have to be short, as I am off to stimulate the local economy by having dinner with a friend. If there were tax credits for eating out, I'd have a guaranteed refund instead of owing like I usually do.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
For Anna, with love
It's nice to know you're missed...
So the last time I did this was in December, when my sunroom was full of Christmas tree. Now it's March, and my sunroom still has lingering Christmas tree needles. I can honestly say that it's not just my poor blog that I've been neglecting. I've had the most rotten case of the winter blues that I can ever remember. The fact that it's supposed to be 31 degrees and precipitating in some frozen form tonight is not helping things. Especially since it was 80 degrees yesterday. It was about 70 degrees last Sunday, and the Sunday before that there was six inches of snow on the ground. Apparently the weather in Memphis suffers from bi-polar disorder.
I am blogging this from my new netbook. Binky the Third, my old, reliable laptop, has served me well for almost five years and, while still ticking along, he's starting to show his age. So I invested in a new toy, which would easily fit into a decent-sized purse if I had one. I've always been a "stuff in my pockets" type of girl, mainly because I'm really bad about leaving stuff places if it's not in my pockets. But Binky IV will not fit in my pocket, so I'm going to have to acquire a decent-sized purse. Actually, now that skinny jeans are making a comeback, there's very little that does fit in my pockets these days, so I guess the purse will come in handy.
I feel like the whole world has changed since December, and I can't even begin to describe how different it is. But, on the other hand, it's not all that different. The alleycat is still overweight; the kitten is still behaving badly. My fiance is still not my spouse, and I'm still happily living in the city. The Eagles have still not won a Super Bowl.
More for another post. Someday spring will really be in the air, and -- now that I figured out how to reset the password on my wireless router -- I will be able to blog from my back deck. No purse necessary.
So the last time I did this was in December, when my sunroom was full of Christmas tree. Now it's March, and my sunroom still has lingering Christmas tree needles. I can honestly say that it's not just my poor blog that I've been neglecting. I've had the most rotten case of the winter blues that I can ever remember. The fact that it's supposed to be 31 degrees and precipitating in some frozen form tonight is not helping things. Especially since it was 80 degrees yesterday. It was about 70 degrees last Sunday, and the Sunday before that there was six inches of snow on the ground. Apparently the weather in Memphis suffers from bi-polar disorder.
I am blogging this from my new netbook. Binky the Third, my old, reliable laptop, has served me well for almost five years and, while still ticking along, he's starting to show his age. So I invested in a new toy, which would easily fit into a decent-sized purse if I had one. I've always been a "stuff in my pockets" type of girl, mainly because I'm really bad about leaving stuff places if it's not in my pockets. But Binky IV will not fit in my pocket, so I'm going to have to acquire a decent-sized purse. Actually, now that skinny jeans are making a comeback, there's very little that does fit in my pockets these days, so I guess the purse will come in handy.
I feel like the whole world has changed since December, and I can't even begin to describe how different it is. But, on the other hand, it's not all that different. The alleycat is still overweight; the kitten is still behaving badly. My fiance is still not my spouse, and I'm still happily living in the city. The Eagles have still not won a Super Bowl.
More for another post. Someday spring will really be in the air, and -- now that I figured out how to reset the password on my wireless router -- I will be able to blog from my back deck. No purse necessary.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Getting into the Festive Spirit
I finally got my Christmas tree last night. My fiance, after protesting that I had to get a smaller tree than the one he had to carry up the stairs last year, agreed to help me. This year's tree, of course, is a full foot taller and about three feet wider than last year's. The good news for my fiance: it's just barely touching the ceiling, so next year's won't be any taller -- unless I'm living somewhere else.
As we wandered around the Christmas tree lot, my fiance hopefully lingering among the seven-foot-tall trees while I carefully inspected the eight- and nine-footers, I fondly recalled the day we got our very first Christmas tree. Because I am an electronic pack rat and can manage to dig up such things, here's how I told the story in an email to my Mom way back then...
So my (then-)boyfriend (now fiance) has this brilliant idea that we're going to cut down a Christmas tree. He doesn't want to buy one from a Christmas tree lot, because he says they don't stay fresh and they get dried out too quickly because it's too warm here for Yankee fir trees. Since it's supposed to be 70 degrees today, I suppose he has a point. (No such problem this year; the Yankee fir trees are feeling right at home. It's the Yankee woman who's doing all the complaining -- I moved here to get away from weather like this.)
So, on Saturday, we drive around out in the country (which starts about ten minutes outside of the town where he lives) for about an hour and a half looking for a Christmas tree. In honor of the occasion, my boyfriend's wearing his red plaid flannel lumberjack shirt. He said that he had found several Christmas trees -- cedar, not fir -- on empty lots over the years. Apparently people have gotten wise to this tactic, because all of the really nice cedar trees that we see are on the wrong sides of barbed wire fences. Including all of the ones on the "cut-your-own" Christmas tree farm, which we decide will be our last resort.
My boyfriend has one more idea before that: his company owns the huge, partially-wooded lot behind his office. It's only partially-wooded because most of the middle of it is a swamp. But it's too cold for snakes, so we trudge through the muck looking for the perfect Christmas tree. And it's there, with one small problem: it's about sixteen feet tall. I, of course, am determined to have this tree, or at least as much of it as we can fit into the house. My boyfriend, of course, thinks I'm out of my mind, and has no intention of cutting down a sixteen foot tall tree and lugging it through the center of town.
Half an hour later, he's dragging the top twelve feet or so of the perfect Christmas tree through the swamp and up the hill to the parking lot. He looks like a pissed-off lumberjack, I look like the cat that ate the canary, and the tree ends up sticking out three feet off the end of the pick-up truck as we drive through town.
I got my five boxes of Christmas stuff and the tree stand out of storage on Sunday, and we set up the tree (minus about another three feet off the bottom) that night. The tree is huge; it's about eight or nine feet tall and looks like it's almost that wide. We trimmed the "back" branches short so that we could put it closer to the wall, but that made it front-heavy, so we weighted the bottom down with bricks and tied it off to the wall so it wouldn't fall over. So far, so good. The only thing that didn't work was my angel; the top of the tree isn't strong enough to hold it up, so we put a bow up there instead.
So far, that tree is my favorite of all the ones I've ever had.
As we wandered around the Christmas tree lot, my fiance hopefully lingering among the seven-foot-tall trees while I carefully inspected the eight- and nine-footers, I fondly recalled the day we got our very first Christmas tree. Because I am an electronic pack rat and can manage to dig up such things, here's how I told the story in an email to my Mom way back then...
So my (then-)boyfriend (now fiance) has this brilliant idea that we're going to cut down a Christmas tree. He doesn't want to buy one from a Christmas tree lot, because he says they don't stay fresh and they get dried out too quickly because it's too warm here for Yankee fir trees. Since it's supposed to be 70 degrees today, I suppose he has a point. (No such problem this year; the Yankee fir trees are feeling right at home. It's the Yankee woman who's doing all the complaining -- I moved here to get away from weather like this.)
So, on Saturday, we drive around out in the country (which starts about ten minutes outside of the town where he lives) for about an hour and a half looking for a Christmas tree. In honor of the occasion, my boyfriend's wearing his red plaid flannel lumberjack shirt. He said that he had found several Christmas trees -- cedar, not fir -- on empty lots over the years. Apparently people have gotten wise to this tactic, because all of the really nice cedar trees that we see are on the wrong sides of barbed wire fences. Including all of the ones on the "cut-your-own" Christmas tree farm, which we decide will be our last resort.
My boyfriend has one more idea before that: his company owns the huge, partially-wooded lot behind his office. It's only partially-wooded because most of the middle of it is a swamp. But it's too cold for snakes, so we trudge through the muck looking for the perfect Christmas tree. And it's there, with one small problem: it's about sixteen feet tall. I, of course, am determined to have this tree, or at least as much of it as we can fit into the house. My boyfriend, of course, thinks I'm out of my mind, and has no intention of cutting down a sixteen foot tall tree and lugging it through the center of town.
Half an hour later, he's dragging the top twelve feet or so of the perfect Christmas tree through the swamp and up the hill to the parking lot. He looks like a pissed-off lumberjack, I look like the cat that ate the canary, and the tree ends up sticking out three feet off the end of the pick-up truck as we drive through town.
I got my five boxes of Christmas stuff and the tree stand out of storage on Sunday, and we set up the tree (minus about another three feet off the bottom) that night. The tree is huge; it's about eight or nine feet tall and looks like it's almost that wide. We trimmed the "back" branches short so that we could put it closer to the wall, but that made it front-heavy, so we weighted the bottom down with bricks and tied it off to the wall so it wouldn't fall over. So far, so good. The only thing that didn't work was my angel; the top of the tree isn't strong enough to hold it up, so we put a bow up there instead.
So far, that tree is my favorite of all the ones I've ever had.
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