"Screw the Vegetables! Save the Meat!"

You may have noticed that my blog posts have been rather sporadic as of late.  I do apologize.  I’ve been very busy with important things, like pretending to work on my memoir, taking fun weekend trips, and watching the new TLC series Extreme Couponing!

I get all nostalgic when I see those crazed women clipping coupons for things they don’t need.  It reminds me of my mother with her blue plastic file box full of coupons, organized by category and then sorted by expiration date.  She once left it behind in a store and immediately started to panic.  To her, it was like leaving $1,000 cash lying around in plain sight.  She was convinced that someone would take it.  As we raced back to the store, I reassured her as only a teenage daughter can: “Oh my God, Mom, no one wants your stupid coupons!  Normal people look at that box and see a stack of meaningless paper.”  And I was right – her coupon box was right where she left it.

The thing I’ve always hated about coupons is that they require you to buy in bulk.  That’s fine for large families, but I'm an only child, so purchasing a product by the truckload meant that I would be stuck consuming that product until the end of time.  My father and I knew better than to tell my mother that we liked anything.  I once made the mistake of saying that I “thoroughly enjoyed” my Healthy Choice Pepperoni Pizza, and I came home a few days later and found forty boxes all lined up in the basement freezer  (Of course we had two freezers!  What family of three doesn’t need a second freezer?).

I guess having a massive stockpile of frozen goods made my mother feel more secure ... until the power went out.  I remember once, when the power was out for an unusually long time, our precious stockpile began to rot.  Luckily, my mother worked at a nearby elementary school that was unaffected by the blackout, and she had access to the cafeteria's massive industrial freezers.  All we had to do was move 500 pounds of food.  And so, my parents and I headed to the basement to form a bucket brigade.  I stood at the basement freezer and handed armfuls of Lean Cuisines to my mother, who then passed them up the stairs to my father.  When I started passing bags of frozen peas, I heard my father yell, "Screw the vegetables!  Save the meat!"  I can still picture my mother running to the steps with a whole chicken under each arm and one balanced on the top of her head.  That's one memory that I'll cherish forever.  It was a true family bonding experience.  And, of course, the power came back on just as we were loading the last of our stockpile into the school freezer.  

Now, as an adult, I’m the most fickle consumer you’ll ever meet.  Not having a stockpile makes me feel liberated.  I’m free to be swayed by marketing gimmicks and “new and improved” labels.  I have absolutely no brand loyalty.  I buy one item at a time, and I get excited whenever I've almost used it up because it means I get to try something new.  I crave variety.  And freshness.  After years of drinking decade-old Capri Sun pouches, I prefer to consume my products when the expiration dates are still far into the future.

Still, when I see those women on TV getting $2,000 worth of groceries for only $3.46 while onlookers applaud and the cashier hands them a mile-long receipt, I can’t help but be fascinated.  I do like to save money.  Just ask my friends and family, several of whom have called me “cheap” to my face.  I always treat it like a compliment: “That’s right!  I’ve worked the night shift at a gas station!  I’ve sold shoes at Payless!  I know the value of a dollar!”  I sound like a ninety-year-old man.

Yesterday, inspired by extreme savings, I printed out a few coupons before going to the grocery store.  I managed to save a whole dollar on 3 boxes of Special K for my husband, and I must admit, it was pretty satisfying.  In the end, I got $118 worth of groceries for only $115.90!  I got so excited looking at my receipt that I spilled an entire bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper into one of my shopping bags, ruining $5.50 worth of Kleenex.  Factoring in the cost of the soda, that means I got $111 worth of groceries for only $115.90!

I have since decided that I am done with coupons.  Clearly, God wants me to pay retail.

Oh God, Why Me?

A few weeks ago, I saw Kevin Nealon’s stand-up comedy show, during which he shared his reaction to last year’s devastating wildfires in Southern California that destroyed dozens of homes.  He recalled how, when walking out of his multi-million dollar beach home, he discovered a thin layer of ash coating his brand new BMW and sank to his knees in despair, tears streaming down his face, clenched fists raised to the sky, screaming “Why me?”

Never has a joke so perfectly epitomized the way I live my life.  If I’m not taking things for granted or blowing problems out of proportion, I just don’t feel like myself.  I thrive on negativity.  Mine is a life defined by imaginary hardship.  But every once in a while, something legitimately bad will happen, and with it comes a moment of clarity: hey, my life is actually pretty great – or at least it was until about five minutes ago.

I had one of these trauma-induced epiphanies last month.  I haven't mentioned it until now because I was waiting until my husband and I had both sufficiently recovered from the ordeal.  It all started with a bottle of pink champagne.  That might not sound like the makings of a terrible tragedy, but champagne bottles are in fact extremely hazardous.  Exploding champagne corks can fly at a speed of 50 miles per hour and are one of the leading causes of traumatic eye injuries.  If the cork is defective, it might explode before you’ve even removed the wire cage, as my husband learned the hard way.

When it comes to remaining calm in a crisis, it turns out that my husband is much better than I am, but I think that’s because he didn’t have to look at his own eye.  Every time I glanced over at him and saw a giant pool of blood where his pupil and iris should’ve been, I had to stop what I was doing and breathe into a brown paper bag, while he just rolled his eye at me.

As I was driving him to the Emergency Room, I couldn’t help but think, “Why wasn’t I happier ten minutes ago?  Life was freakin' awesome ten minutes ago!  I should’ve been overjoyed!  I should’ve been celebrating!” ... Oh, wait, that’s exactly what we were doing.

Upon arriving at the hospital, a normal person would probably feel relieved, but I am not a normal person as far as hospitals are concerned, having once been a victim of medical malpractice.  When I was fifteen, I broke my leg playing softball, and a simpleminded ER doctor slapped a cast on me without ever bothering to examine my ankle, which had been shattered and was subsequently left untreated for months.  Now, when I hear the words “Emergency Room,” I don’t think of a safe haven where miracles are performed and lives are saved; I think of a chaotic, nightmarish place where exhausted, overworked, poorly trained non-specialists “practice” medicine on unsuspecting patients.

Thanks to my traumatic past, I am now the worst kind of patient.  When dealing with doctors, I have to perform rigorous background checks, I repeatedly question their intelligence, I demand second opinions, and I always have a list of 50-100 questions that need answering.  The doctor who was attempting to treat my husband’s eye looked to be about ten years old, and I questioned everything from his faulty instruments to his choice of painkillers.  (I was right about the painkillers.)

I’ll spare you the grotesque details of his treatment, but I can assure you that eye injuries are the absolute worst.  Imagine having to sleep sitting up for weeks, waking up every hour to take eye-drops, and having to keep your head completely still – which means no walking around, no bending over, no sneezing, and some nice person has to wait on you hand and foot and act as your chauffeur.  It also means that you’ll have to wear an eyepatch so that you don’t frighten young children.

Luckily, we already owned an eyepatch.  A genuine pirate’s eyepatch!  Embellished with the traditional skull and crossbones.  I thought it made him look very handsome.  And, he was suddenly able to command the attention of any room.  No one forgets the guy with the weird eyepatch!  When we would go to our local coffee shop, the barista would take one look at us and say, “Iced soy latte and an orange juice, right?”

There were a few other good things that came out of the experience.  On April Fool’s Day, we got to tell our friends and family that my husband had been severely injured by a bottle of girly champagne the night before.  That was fun!  And, of course, I now have a new phobia to obsess over.  I was at a bridal shower a few weeks after the incident, and when the host started popping champagne bottles, I reacted the way one might if a deranged lunatic had started waving a gun around.  I’m strongly considering wearing protective eye goggles 24/7 for the rest of my life.  With the right hair and make-up, I think I can pull it off.

Anyway, now that my husband is mostly recovered, I’m back to taking things for granted and getting upset over frivolous things.  And, God, does it ever feel good.

Yay, I’m Finally Thirty-One!

What’s so special about thirty-one, you ask?  Well, it just so happens that women peak at age thirty-one!   Yup, it’s true.  Studies have shown that I will never be more beautiful than I am right now.  Good to know.

Seeing as today is my birthday, it feels like the perfect time to announce that I am officially commencing work on my memoir – against the advice of several prominent literary agents, who all agreed that I will never be able to sell a memoir without first achieving notoriety.  But if birthdays are good for anything, it’s highlighting the diminishing probability that I'll ever get around to these things.  I mean, if I have to wait until I have 10,000 blog followers to write my memoir, I’ll be too senile to remember my own name, let alone the precise details of my first practical joke (It was a good one: I was seven days old and had just experienced my first nosebleed, so I decided to lie very still in my crib, covered in blood, until my mother came into the room.  It’s been almost 31 years, and she still hasn’t fully recovered.)  Anyway, there’s no time like the present to start digging up the past.  And so, I’ve chosen to embrace delusion.  So what if I’m not a B-list celebrity?  Surely it’s enough to have strong writing, a wonderfully sarcastic title, and my fabulous face on the book jacket.

You may be thinking that thirty-one is still too young to write a memoir, but again, I’m going to have to disagree.  Sure, I might not have that much life experience, but you’d be amazed at how much I have to say about it.  Based on my rough outline, I’m predicting several thousand pages – split into four volumes – in chronological order starting with my birth...  No, not really.  I’m too lazy to ever write more than 200 pages, and that’s with wide margins and a comically large font.

The book will be a series of comedic essays in the vein of David Sedaris, who, coincidentally, I have tickets to see tonight.  I plan on waiting in line afterwards so that I can get his autograph and present him with the opportunity to be my very first book endorsement!  I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance.  I’m also planning to get an endorsement from Tina Fey.  I just finished reading her memoir in which she both mocks herself for being a nerd and advocates supporting fellow women.  There's no way she'll be able to refuse an endorsement for a fellow female nerd.  I had a bowl cut!  I thought turtlenecks were swell!  I wore glasses that were way too big for my face!  I’m still hoping to one day grow into my teeth.  (Oh no, wait – my physical beauty has reached its peak.  Dammit.)

A quick note for my friends and family: If you’re concerned about how you might be portrayed in my bestselling memoir, don’t worry!  There’s still plenty of time for sucking up.  After all, today is my birthday. Those of you who go beyond the traditional Facebook birthday wall post will be described as being much more attractive and intelligent, and your worst qualities and most embarrassing moments will be ascribed to someone else... someone who didn’t bother remembering at all.

Yes, This [Insert Random Object] Is Art

So I’ve started a new exercise regimen: I run around Lady Bird Lake and I’m not allowed to stop until I've seen five pianos.  Yesterday, it took me 2.5 miles.  You have no idea how happy I was to hear that fifth piano as I came huffing and puffing around the bend.  The girl playing the piano was lousy and the melody was completely unrecognizable, but it was still the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

Google has since informed me that these random “street pianos” are part of a touring art exhibit.  Previous cities include London, Sydney, Barcelona, São Paulo, and New York.  The artist, Luke Jerram, wanted to encourage city-dwellers to interact with each other.  He views each piano “as a catalyst for conversation and changing the dynamics of a space.”  As someone who lives in an urban environment and still manages to feel isolated most of the time, the idea really strikes a chord with me (ha, get it?).

The pianos reminded me of a similar undertaking called "The Red Swing Project."  In 2007, a guy named Andrew staged an “urban intervention” in Austin and started hanging red swings in public places under the cover of night.  He went on to hang swings all over the world.  I saw one of his red swings near my apartment building a few months ago, but someone cut it down.  Apparently that happens a lot.  Americans tend to consider it vandalism.

Anyway, I’m feeling so inspired that I’ve decided to start my own [insert random object] project.  My reasons for doing so are as follows:

1.) I’ll finally be able to refer to myself as an “artist.”  A creative individual on a heroic quest to bring beauty to the world.  My life will take on a whole new meaning!  I already embody all of the artist stereotypes: I’m tortured, depressed, lonely, and I look fabulous in black.  All I’m missing is the art  (unless you count my highly original paintings of trademarked beer logos.)

2.) The “social experiment” aspect of the project fascinates me.  In college, I minored in Social Psychology for an entire semester after reading about the Milgram experiment.  I think I would derive much pleasure from hiding behind the bushes and watching people’s reactions to my cleverly placed [insert random object].

3.) I like the idea of executing my “art” in secret in the middle of the night.  Really, I’m drawn to any occupation that involves a flashlight and a ski mask.  I’ve always been a night person, and I’m surprisingly stealthy.


Now I just need to select the perfect random object.  Something that will inspire action.  Something that you don’t see every day.  Something that will bring joy and happiness to the people who are lucky enough to pass by.  Something that people won’t be too inclined to steal.

My first thought was hula hoops, a favorite childhood pastime of mine.  (I once took second place in a prestigious hula hooping contest at the local mall.  A few of us – the remarkably talented ones – lasted so long that the judges were forced to bring in extra small hula hoops in order to make it more challenging.)  I haven’t seen anyone hula hoop in years, so I was surprised to learn that there is already a very active hula hooping scene in Austin.  In fact, there is an actual hula hooping event being held tonight only a few blocks away from me.  That, of course, means that I can't use hula hoops.  My art must be avant-garde!  It can't appear as though I'm jumping on the bandwagon.

Then I had a thought... My goal as an artist is to bring joy to the public.  Installing pianos on a running path may be avant-garde, but as an avid runner (well, recently avid), I can tell you that the last thing I want to do when I'm sweaty and exhausted is play the piano.  That's why I'm starting the Urban Slip 'n Slide Project. Imagine coming around the corner, red-faced and panting in the brutal Texas heat, and right there in front of you is an impromptu water-slide!  Now that's great art.

Warning: Slip ‘n Slides have been linked to serious injuries.  The artist is not liable for any injuries that may occur as a result of her artwork.

Me, Encapsulated in a Word

I’ve always thought of myself as a Renaissance woman, or a polymath – someone who excels in a wide variety of subjects.  Notable polymaths include Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Benjamin Franklin.  The similarities between them and me are undeniable.  In high school, I was a member of both Art Club and Chemathon team.  I quit several sports and gave up two musical instruments all before the age of eighteen. I became fluent in many languages: English, Spanish (un poco), and C++.  I earned a degree in advanced mathematics and still found the time to become an unknown humor writer.  My talents couldn’t be more varied.

Wikipedia provides a list of recognized polymaths – none of them women.  The latest person to make it onto the list is Nathan Myhrvold, the former Chief Technology Officer of Microsoft.  This got me thinking, what exactly does it take to be considered a polymath?  What’s so special about Nathan Myhrvold?  What does he have that I don’t?

At first glance, Nathan and I appeared to have a lot in common.  We both have a Master’s degree in Mathematical Economics, and we both enjoy cooking and scuba diving.  We’re like two peas in a pod, Nathan and me! ... Or maybe not.  Upon further examination, I learned that Nathan graduated from high school at age fourteen and earned two Master’s degrees and a Ph.D. in Physics by age twenty-three. Before he made his millions at Microsoft, he worked with Stephen Hawking at Cambridge, studying quantum field theory.  Sure, he has hobbies just like everyone else – skydiving, car racing, scuba diving, mountain climbing, fossil hunting – but he also has several other careers (like, actual careers, not pretend ones).  He’s an award-winning photographer, an inventor, a scientist, and a chef.  And I don't mean that he tinkers around in the kitchen; I mean that he’s the author of a 2,400-page cookbook and a world barbecue champion.

This prompted me to revisit the definition of “polymath.”  I guess I missed the part where it says that a polymath “does not just have broad interests or a superficial knowledge of several fields, but rather that his knowledge is profound and [...] even at a level comparable to the proficiency or the accomplishments of an expert.”

Since it takes a normal person 10,000 hours to become an expert at something, I interpret this to mean that all polymaths are prodigies.  Either that, or they’re very, very old.  Sadly, I am neither of those.  And according to my calculations, I’m only an “expert” at sleeping, eating, and talking about myself.

There is a term for someone like me, but it’s not “polymath.”  Nope, the word that best describes me is “dilettante.”  A dabbler.  An amateur.  Someone who engages in an activity “sporadically, superficially, or for amusement only.”  I tried to find a list of notable dilettantes, but apparently it’s not a desirable trait.  It’s actually considered to be more of an insult.  Super.  I finally discover the one word that encapsulates exactly who I am, and it’s an insult.  Maybe if I start using it in a positive way, it’ll eventually catch on.  “Oh my God, she’s such an incredible person.  What a diverse set of semi-talents!  She’s a real dilettante!”

Screenwriting Dream Reported Stolen

Horrible, devastating news: Kristen Wiig’s Bridesmaids premiered at the SXSW Film Festival a few weeks ago, and from what I can tell, the reviews are mostly positive.  The film is being touted as “the female version of The Hangover” and “the first genuine female comedy.”

Um, no, actually, I wrote a genuine female comedy three years ago.  And adding salt to the wound, it was full of irreverent wedding humor.  Blerg!  This should've been my moment!  It just goes to show that if you never give up, someone will eventually achieve your goals.  I just wish it had been me.

I was warned that this might happen.  To quote my screenwriting teacher, “If you write a script that is even remotely mainstream, you can count on someone else coming up with the same premise, and that someone might have better connections.”  As an unproduced screenwriter, it’s safer to go with a truly bizarre premise that no one else would ever think of.  For example, "a depressed man believes that his beaver puppet is real" – now starring Mel Gibson!  But wait, that plot sounds remarkably similar to the plot of Lars and the Real Girl.  Okay, so there are no new ideas, only slightly less common ones.

In related news, I learned that the big-shot studio executive who I met with in October is now working for a different company.  Apparently, he switched jobs shortly after meeting me, which means that he probably never received my follow-up email.  Now that I have his new work address, I’m toying with the idea of sending him this letter...

Dear Mr. Studio Executive,

I am writing to bring your attention to a tragic oversight.  Last October, I pitched you my very funny anti-wedding comedy, and you loved it!  Boy, did you love it!  You could hardly contain your excitement.  You said that I could very well be the next Diablo Cody and that you desperately wanted to follow-up with me.  Your intentions could not have been clearer.  You used the word “definitely” not once, but twice!

Unfortunately, you then switched jobs (congrats, by the way) and in all the chaos, I suspect that you misplaced my contact information.  No doubt, you’ve been cursing yourself ever since and have been trying in vain to track me down.  I can just imagine you seething with frustration and berating your assistant, “That tall blonde girl – the funny one with the great ideas – you have to find her! ... I don’t care how!  Knock on random doors if you have to!”

Well, call off the search.  Here I am, ready and willing to send over my script.  I’m not going to lie, it’s been a difficult six months.  My optimism was starting to wane.  Before I heard about your ill-timed job switch, I was almost convinced that you were blowing me off.  Lucky for you, I’ve decided not to hold a grudge.  Everyone makes mistakes.  So let’s put this little mishap behind us and get on with my six-figure development deal.

Sincerely,
Jami

If the letter thing doesn't work out, I'm afraid it might be time to move on.  So many impractical dreams, so little time...

Once Upon a Time, There Was a Purple Unicorn ...

My fiction writing class is officially half over.  In the past when I’ve taken workshop-style writing classes, I’ve always managed to establish myself as the star pupil by this point, mostly because I have a lot of free time to devote to polishing and perfecting the assignments.  Unfortunately, this is not your typical workshop-style class.  Most of the writing is done during class, through various creative exercises.  We're expected to write hastily and carelessly for five minutes and then share whatever we've scribbled down.

Personally, I would rather parade around the classroom stark naked than read my unfinished, unrevised writing aloud.  First drafts aren’t meant to be shared; they’re meant to be burned and destroyed.  Even my blog entries are rewritten and painstakingly edited, hence the long gap between posts – and you thought I was just lazy!

The other students seem perfectly comfortable sharing their unedited writing.  There are a surprising number of improv performers in the class – including the teacher, who performs fully improvised musicals (there isn't enough alcohol in the world to get me up on that stage).  I never would’ve guessed that I’d be the only introvert in a writing class.  I’m basically a spectator.  When it comes time to share, I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with the instructor at all costs.

During the exercises, I rarely produce more than a few scattered notes.  Unlike my classmates – who type at a furious, almost maniacal pace without ever stopping – I feel compelled to plan everything out before I write a single sentence.  I’m usually still in the brainstorming phase when the instructor announces, “Pencils down."  Then I sit in disbelief and listen to my classmates share entire stories, with beginnings and middles and ends – and they're not always terrible.

I even struggle with stream of consciousness, the simplest of exercises.  The teacher will ask us to write down a chain of word associations starting with the word "purple."  The idea is to keep going no matter what, but I can’t seem to make it past three words.  Here's a sample of my best work:

Purple.  Eggplant.  Marinara ...  No wait, I don’t like that.  I’m just hungry.

Purple.  Unicorn.  Rainbow Brite ...  Um, yeah, that’s a dead end.  I haven’t seen that show in years.

Purple ....  You know what?  Purple sucks.  It’s by far the least inspiring color.

Yellow.  Banana.  Monkey ...  Oh my God, how predictable.  I hate it.  I hate yellow.

It has occurred to me that my problem might be a lack of creativity.  It does run in my family.  My mother took an aptitude test in the tenth grade, and her creativity score fell into the 4th percentile.  The guidance counselor said it was the lowest score she’d ever seen.  My mother’s achievement score, on the other hand, fell into the 99th percentile.  Come to think of it, that explains a lot.  I might not be able to write spontaneous stories about purple unicorns, but when it comes to achieving good writing, I’ll always pull through ... eventually.

Festivals Galore!

It’s that time of year again in Austin, when the weather is perfect and every weekend brings a festival of some sort.  Today, the celebration is threefold as Saint Patrick’s Day coincides with both South by Southwest and the Austin Rodeo.  I’m not sure whether to wear green, dress like a hipster, or don my cowboy hat.

The music portion of South by Southwest is already in full swing with 2,000 bands performing around downtown Austin in the span of four days – and those are only the official shows.  Every venue in the city is throwing some kind of party.  The dentist office around the corner from me is hosting a three-day event called "Mouth by Mouthwest" with twenty bands and a full bar (but don’t worry, the on-call dentists are limiting themselves to two drinks apiece).

Because I live in downtown Austin, I can hear the music and the screaming crowds from inside my apartment.  All.  Day.  Long.  How am I supposed to concentrate on writing when there’s a party raging outside my window?  Ever since I broke my leg in the ninth grade and had to be homeschooled for a few months, I have a fear of missing out on fun things.  If it were up to me, I’d be out in the street, drinking green beer and listening to that indie chick who plays the ukulele and sings African chants, but my husband likes to remind me that it’s Thursday and “at least one of us has to work.”

If it was a one-time thing he’d probably humor me, but Austin loves to celebrate and hardly ever takes a day off.  I don’t even set my alarm anymore; I just rely on the daily parades to wake me up.  Nothing infuriates my husband more than a parade.  He’ll go out on the balcony and start waving his fists around while yelling, “Another parade?!  Don’t you people ever stop?!  What’s wrong with you?!  For the love of God, put down your trombones and go home!”

I expect parades and live music on Saint Patrick’s Day, Fat Tuesday, and Cinco de Mayo.  Texas Independence Day?  Why not!  A day to celebrate ice cream?  Sure!  But what about hot sauce?  Reggae music?  Urban music?  Celtic music?  Bluegrass music?  Let’s not forget about Jugglefest.  Or Fantastic Fest.  Or Fun Fun Fun Fest.  There’s the Gypsy Picnic Festival, the Louisiana Swamp Thing Festival, the Old Pecan Street Festival, the Sherwood Forest Faire, the Zilker Kite Festival, Batstravaganza, Batfest (yes, it’s different), The Dragon Boat Festival, The Rattlesnake Sacking Festival…

And then there are the weird ones, like No Pants Day.  Or the 13th Annual Mighty Texas Dog Walk, where Austinites and their dogs attempt to break the Guinness World Record for “Largest Dog Walk.”   Austin has been celebrating Eeyore’s birthday (yes, that Eeyore) since the 1960s with drum circles and a maypole. The Keep Austin Weird Festival includes a costumed 5K run with a pit stop at an ice cream shop; its tagline is “the slowest 5K you’ll ever run.”  My personal favorite is the Hairy Man Festival, which features a petting zoo, karaoke, and, of course, the Hairiest Man Contest.  I still have yet to check out the No Idea Festival, which is entirely unplanned and improvised.  (Yes, these are all real events.)

With so many festivals, it’s amazing that partygoers manage to keep them all straight.  The Republic of Texas Biker Rally and the Austin Gay Pride Parade are held in the same location on back-to-back weekends.  Imagine mixing up those Saturdays.  It probably wouldn’t take you very long to figure out your mistake.

Well, time to give up for the day and join the party.  Happy Festivaling!

Sarcastic 30-Year-Old Female Seeks Bestest Writing Buddy

Are you a woman between the ages of 22 and 40 with a passion for writing, a dry sense of humor, and plenty of free time?  Do you live within 10 minutes of downtown Austin?  Do you enjoy mocking others over a cup of coffee or many beers?  If so, I would like to invite you to audition for the role of my best friend / writing companion.

For several weeks now, I’ve been scouring the Austin writing scene for such a person, attending various creative writing Meetups and critique groups.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much bad writing I’ve subjected myself to on this quest for friendship.  And I mean really bad.  The general rule when critiquing someone else’s work is that you’re supposed to offer at least one positive comment; this is an area in which I struggle.  I’ll end up saying something like, “Well, I thought your avoidance of plot was really innovative. The main character didn’t actually do anything.  It was like we were trapped inside her head, listening to whatever random, pointless thoughts she was having.  So, um, great job!”  In my experience, comments such as this one rarely spark lasting friendships.

I've also noticed that the other writers who attend these groups are either much younger or much older than I am.  It's as if all of the thirty-year-olds have retreated from the social scene to play house and make babies.  On Facebook, my friends’ smiling faces have all been replaced by pictures of big-eyed, drooling infants.  Meanwhile, I’m left socializing with older retired ladies and college girls with fake IDs.

Last week, I went to my first fiction writing class, where the teacher kicked things off with a guided visualization.  She had us close our eyes and said weird stuff like “Listen to yourself breathe” and “Your hands are getting heavy” and “Let everything go white.”  I took the opportunity to blatantly stare at my fellow classmates, sizing them up and trying to decide who might be good friend material.  There was only one girl who I thought had potential.  She had bright pink hair and the only thing she said all night was “Go @#$% yourself,” but she didn’t say it to anyone in particular – it was part of a creative exercise.  Anyway, she didn’t show up to this week’s class, so it looks like I’m back to square one.

Publication #2: Underwired Magazine

I’m happy to report that one of my personal essays was published in this month’s issue of Underwired magazine.  You won’t be able to get your hands on a physical copy unless you happen to live in Louisville or southern Indiana, but don’t despair.  Here is the complete essay as published in Underwired…

IT’S VERY, UM, YOU 

I refuse to wear a dress unless the situation demands it. It’s not that I’m a tomboy or a feminist; it’s just that dresses don’t suit me – much like red lipstick, bangs, and 9-to-5 office jobs. At any given time, there are two, maybe three dresses hanging in my closet. I will typically wear the same dress over and over again to countless consecutive weddings until it literally falls apart at the seams and I’m forced to buy a new one. When shopping for a new dress, I’m not looking for the latest fashion trends; I’m looking for a dress that will stand the test of time – one that I can wear year after year after year, hopefully without anyone noticing.

When I got engaged, I realized that I was going to have to break tradition and attempt to be fashionable. When you’re the bride, there’s no hiding a frumpy dress under a pashmina shawl. Knowing that I would be the center of attention on my wedding day, I obviously wanted to look good. That being said, I didn’t have any fairy-tale expectations about my wedding dress. When I went to the bridal salon, I knew going in that I wouldn’t be one of those women who fall instantly and irrevocably in love with a dress, gasping and smiling and sobbing into a Kleenex while someone places a veil on their head. I was willing to settle for a dress that wasn’t a total disaster.

When the bridal consultant asked me to describe my perfect wedding dress, the first thing that came to mind was “sparkly.” My day-to-day wardrobe has always been rather drab and boring, so I tend to equate dressing up with being covered in glitter. The next thing I knew, I was slipping into a dress that could only be described as “sparkly.” The entire gown, from the strapless neckline down to the end of the cathedral-length train, was heavily adorned with silver embroidery and crystal beading. When I first saw myself in the dress – twinkling like a giant disco ball under the dressing room spotlights – I couldn’t help but think I looked pretty.

My accompanying friend, who prefers classic, simple designs, grimaced when she saw me in the bedazzled dress. “It’s very, um, you?” she offered. That was all the validation I needed. I put down a hefty deposit, went home, and warned my husband-to- be that he should be prepared to shield his eyes at the sight of me coming down the aisle. Self-deprecating humor is really the best way to deal with buyer’s remorse; it helps lower expectations.

After months of joking about my “garish gown” with its “25,000 imported Italian twinkle-beads,” my husband was pleasantly surprised upon seeing me in the dress. I have no idea what anyone else thought – telling the bride she looks beautiful is mandatory – but as I stood at the altar, shimmering and glistening in the candlelight, I decided that I had made the right choice.

When my husband and I got back from our honeymoon, I had my dress cleaned and preserved. I felt like I should keep it, although I had no idea what for. For three years, it’s been buried in the back of my closet, along with my violin and my scuba diving equipment. Every once in awhile, I’ll dig it out and sit cross-legged in front of the presentation box, peering through the thick plastic window. The once-sparkly bodice appears dull and muted, trapped inside its coffin-like box. I feel an overwhelming urge to rip open the cardboard and let the cathedral-length train spill out everywhere. Oh, to see those sparkles sparkle again! But then, what would I do with it?

The obvious choice would be to wear it again. Unfortunately, it required dozens of excruciating workouts and tasteless salads to fit into it the first time. I was at my goal weight for all of twenty minutes during the wedding ceremony before I gorged myself on shrimp cocktail and spring rolls and truffled prosciutto popovers.

Even if I did manage to zip up my wedding gown again, where exactly would I go dressed like a disco ball? Perhaps if I had chosen a simpler style, I could have re-worn my dress to a black and white charity gala, but as it is, I would surely be recognized as a recycled bride. I suppose I wouldn’t have to go anywhere. I have a friend who often wears her wedding dress when she’s at home alone. She’s one of the happiest newlyweds I know, having finally achieved her lifelong goal of marrying a Jewish doctor. I can easily imagine her skipping around the living room in her wedding dress and veil, introducing herself to various pieces of furniture. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Herskowitz. And this,” she says while indicating the coat rack, “is my husband, Doctor Herskowitz.” It’s an entertaining idea, but being accident prone, I probably shouldn’t attempt to maneuver around my apartment with such a long train. Knowing me, I’d get tangled up on a chair and go face first into the coffee table.

If I’m not going to wear my dress, another possibility is to use the fabric to construct something more useful, like a beaded quilt or a decorative pillow. I made a pillow once, fifteen years ago, in my Home Economics class. It was supposed to resemble a hamburger. I sewed the pickles on crooked, but otherwise it turned out okay. Of course, when you’re working with fabric of great sentimental value, there’s a lot of added pressure; I’m just not sure I could handle it.

Part of me feels obligated to leave my wedding dress in the box for another twenty or thirty years in case my future daughter wants to wear it. But, really, the odds of it working out are astronomically small. Assuming that I even have a daughter and that she even wants to get married, I’m guessing that my dress will be too conservative for her. “But, Mom, that old thing doesn’t even show any leg!” I was only in elementary school when I rejected the idea of wearing my mother’s old wedding dress, with its long sleeves and high lace collar. She eventually donated the dress to Goodwill.

That is, of course, another option, and probably the best one. There are several reputable organizations that re-sell wedding dresses at a lower cost and then donate the proceeds to a worthy cause. While I like the idea of the money going to charity, the thing that I find most appealing about donating my wedding dress is imagining the woman who would buy it. She’s probably someone who couldn’t afford it otherwise; someone with a soft spot for sequins and rhinestones; someone who would see my glittery dress out of the corner of her eye and wouldn’t be able to resist picking it up and taking it home with her; someone who would love it as much as I do.