These are a few of my favorite things...

Hasselhoff cheers on the Mavericks at the American Airlines Center ,

The garlic fries at Ameriquest Field in Arlington

And Dave.

This morning feels like my brain is rotating in the reverse direction of the earth, and no, I didn't get drink myself to sleep last night! Everything is just crappy this morning. I wish I was snug as a bug in a rug, back between the blankets in bed...

... I'll tell you what one of the best things in the world is... When I'm half awake and I get a chill, I roll over to get deeper into the covers on the bed when I find a nice warm boy, and he finds me, and we wrap ourselves up in one another. And then, back to sleep...

... Work hours should be subjective. I wonder how much more work would be done, or how much happier workers would be if the system allowed three different start and stop times. you can go to work at 8 a.m., 9 a.m. or 10 a.m., and leave at 4 p.m., 5 p.m. or 6 p.m. That way, you can make sure to wake up at a reasonable leisure because being half asleep and infront of a computer forces people to be like I am today: completely and unequivocally unwilling to take part in society. This, as I'm sure you've already inferred, is bad. Very bad.

I pine for bed.

I think...

... therefore I read Dave's poetry every time he deems the world worthy enough to be glorified by a new post. See for yourself...

On another, equally impressive note, I will be sewing, hemming and hanging curtains this weekend. I hope to get the issues with my digital camera resolved and grocery shopping will commence after yoga tomorrow. Until then... I bid thee adieu!

xoxo!

Added injuncture from across the pond...

This weekend was great, and Dave and I did almost nothing. Well, if doing "something" means a scheduled outing or an event with friends, then we did nothing, but in actuality, we gardened, planted, I cooked and laundered, and we laughed. Oh, did we laugh!

I sat on my front porch this weekend at our lovely New Orleans-style bistro set, and I sipped iced tea with the Sunday news. There was nothing more glorious than gazing at our freshly groomed front yard, our newly potted plants and a breezy Spring early afternoon, a tepid 85 degrees in the shade, which is cool by Texas standards. I clipped coupons, breathed deep and I lazed, soaking up as much spring air as I could before my week of mandatory cubicle confinement.

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I made a breakthrough in my Vinyasa class on Saturday morning. I've always been a bit of a klutz, somewhat unawares of my limbs as they plod and swing. In yoga, you're told to focus, to dive inward and understand the deeper movements of your body. You're to open your senses to every contraction, every shift in minutae. I'll be honest, and in the one year-plus I've been doing yoga, I've never really "gotten it." I've gone through the motions, and while moving from "tree pose" to "dancer I," more often than not I lose my footing, get frustrated and continue to make matters worse until we go back to mountain, and then subseqently to the floor. But during our salutation on Saturday, Greg, my teacher, asked us to dedicate our practice, which is something we do every session, but I took it a little deeper. I dedicated my practice to focus and then I dedicated myself to patience.

Now, the word "focus" for a long time has been somewhat vacant to me. I've always countered it with "focus on what?" But I finally figured it out. In yoga, I have to focus on myself, literally. I have to be mindful of my movement because it effects every bit of my poses, my position, my concentration and the attainment of peace, the essence of "Om."

It was so uplifting. Even the biggest klutz eventually has a point of grace.

Try if you like...

... poetry.

My opinion, worthless as it seems, is that my darling has put to paper (or pixel) some of his best and most inspired work yet.

Check it out here.

What's black, white and a big whiner?

Somewhere between sleep and awake there's a huge lump of fur and fat. This morning it's sitting on my chest, meowing the equivalent of the cliche rooster at the ass-crack of dawn. Dawsey, she's the black-and-white feline terror that cannot be right with the world if she doesn't climb upon our bed and perch on a slumbering sternum and force one of us awake.

I prefer my alarm clock, thankyouverymuch.

And so starts a weekday morning. It makes me wonder if Dawsey has some divine understanding of calendars because rarely does her episodic meowing take place on a weekend. From her jolting pleas in felinese, one of us rolls out of bed to then rouse the other. This morning is a damp and dreary one, with leftovers of last night's cacophony dripping from the weighted branches and cascading from our gabled roof.

Coffee. Toothpaste. Scone. Climb into the Jeep and off we go.

Dave drops me gently at the train station.

"Have a good day, sweetie. I love you."

(Incoherent mumbling)

"Okay, have a good day now. I love you sweetie."

"I'll try," I slowly return, trying my best to come off as misanthropic as possible despite this mornings bittersweet adieu.

I'm being ripped from the womb when I hop out of the Jeep in my skirt and heels. It's like being a toddler alone in a big, cold grocery store when he pulls away from the station. At that moment I'd do anything to go back, but I know that it's temporary. I know I'll be safe and loved in a matter of hours.

Summoning energy previously just a mystery, I jot down the escalator to the patient train and hop aboard. The scent of rain, cologne and newsprint tickles my nose. Sip the coffee, turn the page.

Conservative, nonetheless...

I think that all this foofaraw about the wreckage of America's economy if we pull away from petroleum-centered industry is absolute poppycock. Over at The Swanky Conservative I've had a quite animated back-and-forth with Mr. Swanky himself. Below is my latest response about what could be America's leading foray into clean, sustainable industry:

The cutbacks on industry are already happening. It's well-known that automobiles emit 58% of the chemicals that react to form ozone and about a third of the CO2 that is trapped in our atmosphere annually. More and more people are choosing their next automobile purchase to be a more efficient, foreign-made model that is more likely to pollute less and cost less (due to decreased overhead for the lack of auto-worker unions).

What you probably didn't know is that energy-producing enterprise, or what most people would refer to as "power plants," is one of the most regulated industries next to medical manufacturers, big tobacco and petroleum. Coal-burning power plants have made huge strides in recapture and carbon sequestration, but they are becoming outdated by cleaner-burning natural gas. However, neither is optimal, and nuclear power is like masturbation; when you're done doing your business you have a whole lot of really gross stuff that you won't want to clean up.

So, let's put our money where our mouths are and start building up domestic businesses based on Earth-centered ethics, like renewable or sustainable power (Wind, Solar, hydroelectricity, biomass, etc.), zero-pollutant industry, hydrogen fuel cells and better streamlined recycling. Then as we build these businesses with greater capital that we're saving by taxing the businesses who are not crossing over to cleaner, more responsible industry, we'll gradually have a shift, which may take a little while (10-20 years) but the benefits will be astounding and won't be the harsh transition that you fear (the '70s were only a decade, right? and the trouble you speak of was what, in the period of 5 years?).

Dry your tears, little neocon. Buck up and just do what's right. Remember, just because it's dictated by the free market doesn't mean that it's moral.

The night without you

It's crazy to sit in this big house and feel lonely just because you left moments ago. You and I were just trying to make up, and you leave, and I'm lost, or to be more accurate, I'm at a loss.

Sometimes there's something missing. You're my best friend, the only real friend I have here, and maybe that's why it's so lonely, because when you're gone my world becomes smaller than the dust bunnies left behind from Mr. Orange's winter coat.

I want you to love me, and say it like they do in the movies. I want you to surprise me in the kitchen with a soft kiss on my neck. When you curl up next to me in our vast bed, I always hope that you'll reach for my hand.

I tell myself sometimes, and I know this is silly, but I keep thinking, "What if I was prettier, or if I drop 15 or so pounds? What if I was better looking, would he do all the things I dream of? Would he love me like Joe Gillis embracing Betty Schaefer in Sunset Boulevard?"

This is such crap. I am officially co-dependent ... and that's bullshit.

One too many blows to the head...

... left me for dead, but still I fight on.

I know that I'm far from infallible, but when I make stupid mistakes and they are pointed out to me rather pointedly, my heart rises in my throat and it feels like a punch in the gut. Then I can't help but think, "GOD, I'M SUCH A @#$%ING MORON!"

After reading Sarah Hepola's last blog entry, I tried to remember why I'd started my blog in the first place. I used to post regularly in another one, which is no longer linked to this profile, about philosophy and trying to understand the human condition. THe purpose of this blog is somewhat related to that cause, but it's more like looking at the situation that Dallas is in and what I can do as a citizen journalist to pull it up by its bootstraps. It started as a place to lament my first year out in the "real world" as well.

Now it just seems like I bitch a lot and melt over Dave, which in retrospect makes me look like a huge, ineffective pussy (pardon me, but it's true). What happened to the tough-as-nails, devil-may-care attitude that was the original author's voice? Well, she got engaged and started fretting over her career.

I thought about freelancing a bit. Like just testing the market with my opinions. But after reading Sara Hepola's column on freelancing, I should definately keep my day job. The thing is, if I did freelance, where would I find time to cook, to clean and knit and sew and all the little hobbies that I enjoy? Would I ever really relax? What about yoga? Would I ever be able to sit still or quiet my mind?

I keep wanting more, and I guess that's the point of life. Not the material more, but the spiritual and ambitious more, the one that fills your spirit and not your house with junk. But when can I fulfill these ambitions? When can I find the time to dedicate myself to this? When can wanting more mean actually having it?

Maybe I should just suck it up and stop waiting for an opportunity and make my own...

On the surface...

Breathe in...

My muscles are tired and sore as I ease and then collapse into my desk chair. It was a long night, made restless by the staccato of thunder and visual crescendos of lightening that lit the densly windowed bedroom. Thirst. I climb clumsily from the bed, wrenching my body from his dead-weight arm, and make a long forge in pitch black hallway bathed in the intermittent flashes of the storm. Quenched, sated and achy I roll back into our bed.

Breathe out...

After a five-run lead, the Rangers lost, and this morning you cursed them while I haphazardly stuffed my bagel into my tote. The coffee is creamy, sweet and strong, but not nearly enough douse my mind in awareness. We're running late for lack of sleep and because making two separate lives synchronize is harder than we thought. It reminds me of a conversation I once had with a mother and how she referred to her sons as "this one" and "that one." But we can't go back to this or that; now we're an infinite "we," an unending "our."

Dive deep...

But I'm just tired. Tired of my propensity for worry and the resulting proclivity for inaction. I'm tired of hungering for success, praise and acclaim while knowing that it's just not my time. I'm an adolescent boy that dreams of climax but dreads my peak. I'm a sports car that craves the open road but cringes at the thought of mileage. I'm a middle-aged woman, remembering everything that led to this point, all the memories and love, but I can't come to terms with the wrinkles from my laughter.

Come back to the surface...

Give it time and the hours will pillage.

One small step -- wait -- nevermind

Imagine my delight to read that finally Prez Bush II has pulled his cranium from his posterior and updated the CAFE standards for pick-up truck, SUV and van fuel efficiency.

The Bush administration issued new rules Wednesday ratcheting up gas mileage requirements for pickup trucks, sport utility vehicles and vans, for the first time covering the largest SUVs on the road like the Hummer H2 and Chevrolet Suburban.

The new fuel economy rules, covering 2008 through 2011, would save 10.7 billion gallons of fuel over the lifetime of the vehicles sold during the period and go further than an administration proposal issued last summer, officials said.

“The new standards represent the most ambitious fuel economy goals for light trucks ever developed in the program's 27-year history,” said Transportation Secretary Norman Y. Mineta.

Ladies and gentlemen, even if this is a huge stunt to nudge Bush's approval ratings up a notch, I'm okay with that, given the outcome. But 2008??!! Isn't that waiting a bit too long? I mean, it won't take effect until the Bush is out of office. That doesn't make sense...

But, along with good news, bad news is almost always certain to follow:

The Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission is sending undercover officers into bars, issuing citations or making arrests for public intoxication – even if customers haven't left the building.

...

The news reports have described how the TABC was issuing more criminal citations to rein in people who could be a danger to themselves or others – especially by driving drunk.

Lawmakers who oversee the commission said they generally agreed with the agency's increased emphasis on public safety.

Some also said accounts of certain arrests suggest the program should be reviewed to check for abuses and to measure its effectiveness. Among those arrested was an Arkansas man who said he drank "no more than six" beers at a hotel restaurant before he retired for the night to his room in the same hotel.

Arresting someone while they're drunk in a hotel bar, WHERE THEY WILL STAY THE NIGHT, MIND YOU. Just to let you know, his superiors fired him after his arrest for public intoxication, all because the TABC, or for you Europeans, the agency that regulates who can serve alcohol to whom and where, they just want to be nannies. Bastards.

UPDATE: TABC nixed the bar stings because of loud, sustained public outcry. That's one thing about Texans, we sure do know how to bitch!

Stronger stomach than I thought

Our new workaday routine starts with a loud alarm at 6:30 a.m. and a large cat on my chest soon thereafter. Once she's sufficiently goaded and meowed me awake, Dave and I roll, slump and pour onto the unforgiving hardwood and pad our way toward our first cup of coffee. Two shakes of splenda and a splash of cream dives into my solemn pool of fresh-roasted Sumatra. I run my fingers through my tangled mop and with half-closed eyes we head towards the lavatory.

"You ready?" Dave posits, with a wry half-smile. I flip him the bird. Of course I'm not ready. I haven't a coat, nor lunch, nor patience. I scrambled into the Jeep, clad in heels and a dress whilst trying my damndest to avoid a telling run in my stockings.

But it's still a great morning, because I get a sendoff at the train station from Dave. "Have a great day, I love you!" he says through the window, followed by a blown kiss. I tell him to get out of here, knowing that he's already late, but still glad that he's there. A sip of Sumatra, then I trounce down the escalator as the southbound train enters the station. We embark toward downtown.

Caught up in thought and cloistered on the crowded Cedars station terminating train, it was a rare day that I opted to people-watch instead of read or knit. Sitting on a side-faceing bench, hunched over a paperback novel was an at-home-dyed strawberry blonde looking towards the chasm of 50. Every few minutes her shriveled, leathery mitts would haphazardly aim at her mouth and she'd proceed to gnaw her fingernails until she was satisfied with their length. After her lips had curled back down to shroud her smoke-stained teeth, she'd pick the remnants of her fingernails from the tip of her tongue, turn the page in her paperback and repeat.

Directly in front of me there were two black girls, one wrapped in an oversized jacket and the other cradling a half-used roll of bathroom tissue. They talked over each other for five mintues and then one of the girls railed a disgusting, mucus-filled, phlegmy cough. The train doors opened and she rushed towards them. She leaned her head back and then thrust her body forward while gripping both poles at the stairs leading up from the platform and onto the train. As she heaved out of her mouth came a white glob of mucus, which shot across the platform and stuck to the wall.

She then sat down and blew her nose. And then again, she blew her nose. And once more, she blew her nose. Each time she would discard the wadded bathroom tissue on the floor of the train car without a care as to what poor person would have to pick up after her. Once she was satisfied with the amount of snot that had exited her sinuses, she pulled out her lip gloss and a pencil and then picked out pieces of loose tobacco from the cigarette packs she stowed in her bag from her pot of gloss. After picking out the tobacco, she smeared the caked glob onto the carpeted seat next to her, closed her bag and exited the train.

But at least I got a good sendoff at the station, right?

Now is the time...

Today is a perfect opportunity to point out that I was right. A statement from the Iranian government unequivocally shows that the U.S. has serious diplomacy issues. Our outright rivalry with this Islamic government and our unparalleled dependence on foreign oil has doubled the power that their government weilds over us.

According to the New York Times, in a statement to the board of governors of the International Atomic Energy Agency, the Iranian government said, "The United States may have the power to cause harm and pain but it is also susceptible to harm and pain," the news reports said. "So if the United States wishes to choose that path, let the ball roll."

Now more than ever, it should be evident that we should do something, and fast, to wean ourselves of foreign oil. Iran and Venezuela have too much control over our economy, and since our goverment is based on a capitalist model, they have control over our system. It's similar to what business calls a "hostile takeover." An entity with a lot of capital backing buys up shares in a company until they have a majority ownership. Then, since they have more positions on the board and more stake as a shareholder, they can pretty much overthrow the executives and buy, sell or merge, or basically do whatever they damn-well please.

Now, look at how our economy operates. Every time the price per barrel increases sharply people run to the closest filling station like a run on the bank. Today the average price per gallon of gasoline is $2.25 at 8:30 a.m. After this news the price should increase at least 5 cents today alone. If I'm walking to work tomorrow and the price per gallon isn't at least $2.30, I'll be very surprised.

Our addiction to oil makes us so vulnerable, and now is the time for going cold turkey. That means renewed support for mass transit initiatives. That includes expansion and new funds for rail and bus services. Maybe we should take a cue from Europe and Asia and switch to ethanol buses or at least biodiesel. Maybe instead of giving these insane tax breaks to the rich we should more incentives for energy efficiency for corporations and small business, government agencies and individuals.

Now, more than ever, we depend on our government to do the right thing.

Cup of tea...

I couldn't get over the feeling of being in the dog house. Tired and stressed and alone, I hunched over my desk and the steaming cup of chai. "Was it my fault? God, I feel like such an idiot!" It plagued me that I had made a mistake. Me. A mistake. It just didn't compute.

So downtrodden and discouraged, I stared listlessly into the tea and the small fragments of dried leaves that swirled at the bottom. The melancholy honey sank to the bottom of the amber-hued liquid.

I knew that this would take some adjustment, I knew the city would change me. I knew that at times I would feel like my life wasn't quite right. I sad epiphany struck. "It's not right. I don't want to do this for long, pushing files about and dreaming of my true dream as proxy could do it justice!" My sickening sadness reached throat and I stirred the steaming chai.

The goals, the dreams and the ideas flashed in my mind. I poured the cream into the cup. The soft white hit bottom and billowed towards the top like a nuclear explosion. The cream cloud swirled in the chai like a beautiful storm. It bounced from the edges of the mug and the once clear amber became muddled and brown. With one final stir the tea became opaque and the tears welled up in my eyes.

It's a cup of tea. This is easier than it looks.

Confession from a rotted conscience

Okay, so I've been feeling kind of dirty lately -- in a bad way. My conscience is wrought with immense guilt, so I have to unload to free my soul from the crushing easement that are my misdeeds.

1) I actually like being deaf sometimes. It's only because pretending that I am listening to someone is sometimes easier and less frustrating than actually listening to them. As most people know, folks are full of bullshit. So, I'm actually sparing myself a lot of grief. However, it sucks to get caught.

2) I am living in sin. Dave is staying at my apartment every night. But you know what? No remorse here! I love it and I'm not going to stop! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

3) I am a philistine. I ate sushi with a fork today because I forgot chopsticks. I can never be forgiven for this, so I thusly accept my shame. I am a pariah...

4) I haven't gotten my tattoo retouched and one side of it is slightly less-inked than the other. I am so tacky...

Please, leave comments to help with my absolution.

Driven by a Dallas morning

It's not hard to get addicted to public transportation, which is one reason I am somewhat apprehensive about moving to an area of Dallas that is not accessible by rail. Boarding a train, unhindered by other drivers, coasting down the silky metal tracks, barreling through tunnels and finally arriving just a stones-throw from the office is like a drug coursing through my veins. It's so soothing to know that I am not at the whim of other drivers, and that my transportation has a schedule free from highway gridlock. It's mass transit freedom; it's bliss.

With my creamy cup of Cafe DuMonde doused with hazelnut creme I jogged from the bus stop to the platform and climbed into the train car and took my seat next to an Indian woman sheathed in an emerald trenchcoat, clutching a local tabloid daily. I settled in and opened Collected Stories of Carson McCullers. We glided through the city under the cloud-dappled morning sky clad with sky scrapers and a horizon cut with highways. People, buildings filling with workers and streets supporting cars and hurried drivers -- everyone had a destination, and by 10 a.m., the downtown thoroughfares are calm, the traffic has cleared and Dallas rests in a mid-morning lull.

There are so many sights from the window of a train car that I feel privy to the lives of a visually fascinating few. A woman walking to the West End in a sweater of a salmon shade and chinos with a delicate crease clutching a small leather bag and a panicked Siamese -- my imagination takes hold and to me she's cradling and cooing her sweet child that shares her lonely downtown abode. They're returning from a harrowing trip to the veterinarian and there's a cool can of tuna waiting for her spoiled companion. The Siamese is the only presence that assuages her loneliness. The Siamese is her defining grace, sharing her life and the remnants of her sanity, of her 30-something charm.

I hop off of the train, giddy from my fantasy, I wave to the conductor and he toots his horn. Skirting the platform as the train disembarks, my Dallas morning leaves port.

A house to spite a home

And we're back from Houston. My resolution to stop drinking beer has been broken. Damn my lack of resolve. I couldn't resist free beer at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo Bar-B-Que cookoff. If you didn't know, this cookoff is the world championship Bar-B-Que cookoff. I've never eaten so much animal flesh in one day... Never. However, it was so stinkin' tasty... Hillbillie ambrosia...

Speaking of hillbillies, my mother and father are country quaint. They don't mind showing their true colors every once in a while. So you can see how I wasn't shocked that my father was in a long-sleeved camouflage shirt when I got home. However, I was kind of taken aback to find that there was a field-dressed feral pig quietly resting on the tailgate of my father's truck. It was his first time to bag a wild swine.

I can understand how some people would think that hunting wild pigs is disgustingly redneck, but then again, I'm sure that these are the same people that haven't tasted venison, buy everything in hygenically preserved plastic wrap and get the heebie-jeebies when someone mentions "roughing it."

You people just don't know. You have to live a little.

So, we're back in Dallas. I'm back on my all-organic diet. I'm back to my 6-days-a-week yoga fix. I'm back, and I'm ready to go back.

All this pretension makes me want to hurl.

Who sucked the fun out?

All of their pictures look like they made some great discovery in life... Did I miss it? Where did my midweek booze binge go? Why did I spend college working hard to get a degree instead of partying hard and living life to the fullest before responsibility smacked me up like Tuesdays trick in the back seat of a Caddy with spokes.

I missed out to gain a running start at my dream job. I missed out on the Wednesday night drink specials and the Sunday morning hangovers with people who live for debauchery, for passion, for friend and most of all, for fun. I feel like that was a very important part of college that I didn't get.

Most of all, I'm sad to say, that it was my own naivete that got in the way. I fell in love for someone who thought I was a couple of steps up from an accessory. Fuck that. I am not, and never will be, an alligator purse. I missed out on an internship in Washington, D.C. for him. I missed out on symphonies and so much of my potential. He took it away, and here I am. But, I've learned so much, but I'm still so bitter yet so open to beauty.

I'll never look back on it as waste. I'll just see it as the flattened corpse of the sewer rat in my path. I saw it just as I stepped off of the curb, and I'll never forget it, but I walked right over it and never looked back.

Sloth???

There's a hearty debate going on over at rant-a-matt as to what animals should be tossed and which ones we should keep, of course, in hopes of making them into incredibly abhorrent human-animal hybrids.

But, call me shocked, there was a call to eradicate the sloth! Sloth? NOOOO!

I then realized they were talking about this little fella:

I don't know, guys, but I think you should pick on something that can actually outrun you. It just isn't fair!!!

A pound of flesh...

Recently I stumbled across my new favorite "Overheard in New York" eavesdropping (Isn't that just oh-so-apropos?). Drumroll, please....

Girl: I've never had venison before.
Guy: Order it. You can taste Bambi. You can taste the innocence. And the fear.
--"A" Restaurant, Columbus Avenue

Blatant lies under overtures of loyalty

Melissa Filbin has officially lost my respect. I put in a call to The Battalion yesterday and spoke with Ms. Filbin directly. After asking her what The Batt's motives were in failing to publish a piece on the Deutschbag, Ms. Filbin stated that the story "hadn't developed," and that they were waiting for an "exclusive interview."

After reading the front page of The Battalion this morning, I was livid. How on Earth can an Aggie lie directly to a fellow Aggie? What is going on here? Has The Battalion lost its last shred of credibility as a student-run daily?

In the realm of journalism, if you lie to your public you're lying to the world. If you do that, your no better than chronic plagiarist Jayson Blair, former NYT reporter that habitually fabricated sources and stole material from some genuinely fabulous writers.

So, needless to say I'll be putting in a few calls to The Battalion's office.

What's really sad is that Brian Cain, a former classmate of mine and one-time city desk editor of The Batt, interviewed Deutsch on WTAW. His responses are canned, weak and offer no real justification for his actions. But that doesn't even touch the fact that although Deutsch put in an interview to WTAW The Battalion still didn't pick up the story. Why? I have no idea.

This is all so very sad.

[UPDATE]

Turns out that The Battalion did publish the AP breakdown of the non-Aggie incidident. No local angle, which sucks. I think that there's way too much politics going on at Aggieland's university daily.

Just to get it off of my chest, I think it's ethically wrong to let your own political bias get in the way of the press. If this is Filbin's deal, she needs to seriously learn the tenants of journalism, and quick.

Ms. Filbin may be a political science major, but that has absolutely no indication that she should be making judgement calls about what is news to Aggies and what isn't. Much like Mr. Deutsch shouldn't have been making judgement calls about what scientists, with accredited degrees of course, should disclose about the dangers of global warming or the evidence supporting evolution.