Urban Batty

Down and Out in the ATX

[downoutatx]

Wings

When a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, is she expecting the change? Did her butterfly mom sit her down on a leaf and explain the transition like a human puberty talk?

“Now, Irma, when you get to a certain age, strange things will start happening to your body. You’ll have the sudden urge to hole up in a dark comfy room and you’ll sprout two giant wings from your back. It will be very uncomfortable but very rewarding. Once you have wings, all the boys will begin to look at you differently, and you will begin to look at them differently too. Mark my words – you’ll soar above the caterpillars.”

Irma could only stare at her mother dumbly. Sprout wings? How is that even physically possible?

Or does a caterpillar just start feeling strange one fine day? Tired, in fact. Perhaps the caterpillar wakes up thinking, “I am so exhausted that I am going to weave myself a fort to keep it nice and cool and quiet for an extended sleep.” Maybe she doesn’t know what the nap will bring.

There is a chilling connotation associated with metamorphosis. I believe that we can thank Kafka for that. However, at its very essence, the idea of a true alteration of form requires a phase change, a shift of the intermolecular forces that exist between molecules. That’s a powerful idea. My grasp of chemistry is tenuous at best, but in order to change an element’s form, the application of some kind of energy is required. To vaporize water, you must add heat. To dissolve salt, you must add water. If we envision the physical world as a giant breathing metaphor for our ethereal self, then to alter our spiritual or interior forms, a similar application of energy is required. Conversely, if we are unwilling to change our actions, we can’t expect our forms to change. How does that saying go again? Insanity is when you do the same thing over and over and expect the results to differ.

I envy the caterpillar. The cocoon thing is far too convenient to usher in such a lovely change. I assume that growing wings would be painful, but I would be absolutely willing to give it a go. If only I could build a cocoon and sprout my own set of gossamers. Maybe the little butterfly is a metaphor too – maybe if I get my home in order, then my outside appearance will alter, and change will begin.

On that note, my scalp is dry, and my kitchen is dirty. I am going to smoke some weed, sort my mail and vacuum. Perhaps I will even hang a painting. That should get the ball rolling on this wing thing.

[downoutatx]

Tumblr at Work?

I am trying a new thing per the suggestion of WC. He believes that I should take advantage of my cushy job, which consists of lots of menial tasks and little supervision. If you’re going to do something you’re overqualified for, he says, you might as well take advantage of it. To that end, I am starting off my day with a Tumblr post from the office.

As a side note, it is 8:21 am, and the entire “bullring” / cubicle area of the office is dark, and every executive office is vacant. It is just me, the IT Director, the payroll girl and one IT helpdesk person. Oh wait. An accountant just arrived. We are supposed to have 35 people in our office. Guess it is fuck off Friday. 

My mom and grandma are coming to visit me in Austin this weekend, so I spent the ten days prepping my new condo for their visit. It is a new condo to me, but it is an old place full of fun quirks. For instance, one of my toilets had some kind of brownish layer coating the inside of the bowl, and no matter how hard I scrubbed with regular cleaning products, the poop-looking stain wouldn’t budge. So I did what every DIYer loves to do -- I Googled the internet. Remove stubborn stain from toilet. Turned out, I just needed some industrial strength acid, so this weekend I went to home depot, bought acid and a gas mask and went to town. It totally worked. I probably ate through my plumbing, but damn my toilet is white. 

I still need to look for a roommate so that I can pay my taxes. I plan on launching a full-fledged search after the family leaves on Monday. Not sure if I should use Craigslist or something more reputable. Suggestions?

In other news, I am headed to the east coast with WC to attend his friend’s wedding with him. I have been looking for the *perfect dress* to go with his super preppy groomsman attire. He’s apparently wearing khakis and a blue blazer like a fucking ship’s captain, so I am thinking pin-up sailor costume would be perfect. The bride is going to love me. (What is it with me, weddings and sailors??) 

The reason why I have never wanted to write anything personal at work is that my ADD gets very agitated. My email inbox is unsorted, and there is a pile of paperwork STARING AT ME. I can’t think to write about anything other than my to-do list. It’s boring. I know. 

Speaking of to-do lists, I do want to draft a new list of life goals for the next 5-10 years. This sounds like a ridiculously Type-A thing to do, but I need some focus. Ok, let’s give this a go: 

1. Get a gym & a trainer this summer so I can wear ridiculously hideous, scantily constructed ACL outfits. 

2. Start two businesses by the time I turn 40. Business models TBD. 

3. Seriously consider alternatives to law school like business school. Maybe I will meet my business partner in an EMBA program. Figure out how to do this without major debt. 

4. Have baby. (lol) 

5. Become a minimalist. 

6. Eat more vegetables. 

7. Establish a regular meditation practice and become a less anxious human being. 

8. Write more. Maybe write a book. A funny book. There should be pictures too.  

9. Be so fabulous that WC says I love you. 

That’s the best I can do before coffee.

[downoutatx]

Taco Tuesday

Happy Tuesday, my friends. I would say Happy Taco Tuesday, but Austin is the unofficial home of the taco. It is pretty much taco day every day. Not a bad thing at all, but it does take the wind out of Taco Tuesday’s sails. In San Diego, we used to go out to On The Border on Tuesdays, which has substandard tacos but great deals on Tuesday, which almost makes up for the food. Coupled with a few margaritas, it was a party. Now I have wino Tuesdays alone. This is mainly because I don’t have enough friends here who celebrate weekdays. This will all change shortly when I find a roommate. I figure if I have a roommate, I can drink at home and feel less like an alcoholic. Go me!

On the subject of roommates, I brought up the option of WC living with me while we were drinking champagne on Saturday afternoon. I was met with a simple reply: “That would be too much for me right now.” I understand that we work together, and working and living together is a lot of togetherness. Way too much togetherness. I get it in my rational mind, but I didn’t want to hear it. I am really used to relationships, which is my issue, not his. I didn’t buy a big place in order to live with him. Nonetheless, I was a little hurt. 

Following our conversation, we went out to dinner at Sway and then walked to Rainey Street where we got very drunk. We began the night at the new bar Parlor Room. The place has very few qualities to love except for one -- it is the best place it Austin to watch butts. Specifically, the seating arrangements on a subfloor in the back necessitate that you look at everyone from the waist down. I saw a girl get a reach-around (I’m talking a full on fingering from behind) just as a nice woman was clearing the empty glasses from our table. The glass-clearing woman made  a funny comment in Spanish that I didn’t understand, but I laughed because the meaning was universal. Way to finger your lady friend within full view of everyone else in the bar. That’s what you get when you go out on Rainey on a Saturday. 

We followed up Parlor Room with Clive Bar where we tasted mescal in a tiny stone house in the garden, and we then headed to Blackheart. It was that bar where a woman cried out “FUCK” in the bathroom when I couldn’t lend her any blush in the bathroom (huh?? drink more woman, and you’ll look flushed as hell), and WC witnessed a man washing bird poop out of his hair. We followed that shit show with Lucille’s where we always make bad decisions about cocktails. In fact, the first time that WC and I went to Rainey together, we had wasabi margaritas as a nightcap. Terrible idea. I stuck to beer like a good girl on Saturday, but that didn’t make me sober. Once we were both good and drunk, I pulled an irrational drunk girl and told WC that we needed to have a relationship conversation when we were sober because I would like to know where we’re going. He wanted to talk right then, beginning with “I am crazy about you.” I shut him down. That wasn’t the forum. We went back to his house where he was too drunk to fuck. We didn’t bring any of that up in the morning, perhaps because he didn’t remember. I did. 

I am beginning to think that WC might not be the guy for me. I am like a fragile breakable vase these days.  He has never had his heart broken. He wants to take it slow because he has never been in a relationship, while I want to ensure that I don’t shatter like the last few times. How do you meet in the middle when your experiences are so different? I must love too freely and get hurt too easily. I feel like I never progressed past 16. 

My insecurities may quickly turn me into a cat lady. I could be ok with that, maybe. 

I had a dream on Sunday that was uncomfortably vivid. My family had gathered at a destination resort for my wedding to my ex-boyfriend Dale. We were still supposedly together in the dream. Before the wedding, I had a breakdown, telling my mother that I didn’t want to marry him. I thought it would be a terrible idea. He wasn’t right for me, and I hadn’t talked to him in a month. Moreover, as always, he was nowhere to be found. Before I woke up, I was huddled in a corner cradling myself, embarrassed because my family had assembled for no reason, embarrassed because I had picked the wrong man. Perhaps my last relationship was like a second divorce for me. That would explain my award-winning conversational abilities at my friend’s bachelorette the weekend before last: in the midst of everyone’s happy exclamations over their impending or recent nuptials, I declared that, “the third time’s a charm!” What the hell is wrong with me? Talk about inappropriate banter. One girl even turned to me to ask how many times I have been married. My sarcasm is a bit much. In case anyone is wondering, I have only been married once, and I plead temporary insanity. Like 7 years of insanity. 

So... I should probably end this by offering the future text of my Craigslist roommate post: 

Girl, 30, seeks outstanding roommate who pays rent on time and wants to live in a great part of South Austin within walking distance to South Congress and South First. (It is possible to crawl drunkenly from C Boys back to my apartment if you don’t mind stairs.) I enjoy wine, Netflix binges and other normal things that  basic members of society do. Maybe we can do these things together. Won MVP at karaoke that one time and would prefer a roommate who will do my dishes. Just kidding about the dishes, but I wouldn’t be mad if you were into cleaning. I clean stuff too. If you’re my size, which is the size of a 10 year old, I am happy to share clothing. I would also be ok if you didn’t want to talk to me at all. 420 friendly. 

Whaddaya think? Too much? I might need to sleep on it. 

[downoutatx]

Drug Trafficking and the Pursuit of Happiness (Part Deux)

Good morning campers! It is a cloudy, drizzly day in Austin, which is going to be perfect to accomplish all of the chores on my list. I want to vacuum behind my fridge today, which may seem weird, but I am doing my damnedest to avoid the bugs that lurk in the walls of Texan buildings.  

So back to camping in Big Bend. After arriving hideously stoned from those pot-laced Wally Ranchers, we managed to pitch our lopsided tent in gale-force wind. WC was convinced that we needed to put up a tarp to block the wind, but we did’t bring a tarp. Instead, we tried hanging a blanket from two scrubby trees, which became more like a sail than a wind block. We gave up on that idea and put the rain cover on the tent instead. 

It was 2 hours before sunset when we finally finished setting up camp, so we decided to go for a hike to the Window. WC is very pale, and he has the most ridiculous looking hiking gear that covers his body while still keeping him cool. For hikes, he usually dons a large floppy fishing hat, a plaid REI shirt with the wind venting in the back, a scarf for his neck, a pair of zip-off convertible cargo pant shorts, hiking boots and wool socks. He tops this all off with a tiny Osprey backpack and sunglasses. To be fair, he isn’t much of a mountain man, so it is probably for the best that he arrives prepared in the wilderness. However, in my stoned state, I couldn’t help but giggle at his outfit. 

We started off on our hike, and after about a mile, we sat down and had some water.  I looked over at WC (still stoned) and realized that one of the lenses of his sunglasses had jumped ship, and he had been hiking the entire time with one lens. My obvious course of action was to poke him in the eye. He protested and then realized that he hadn’t noticed his lack of sunglasses lens while waving casually to the other hikers we passed. I think we laughed for a good 10 minutes. 

We did finally make it to the Window, aptly named because you can look out between two rocks and see a panoramic view of the valley below. There were lots of yellow jackets roaming around, and I nearly fell off of a cliff trying to get away from one. This scared WC, and I got a long lecture about not falling off of things. Thanks, mom.

That night, the stars were incredible. Also, WC farted in the tent, and it smelled like stinky macaroni and cheese. Ew. 

In the morning, we cooked eggs and set off for another hike to Emory Peak, the highest peak in the Chisos Mountains. It was a tough climb 5 miles uphill to the base of the peak, and once we reached the base, we had to rock climb to reach the pinnacle. That would have been fine, except for the bugs. The area was crawling with ladybugs and fleas. Luckily, I learned my lesson the day before -- while teetering on a cliff, do not swat. WC didn’t go to the very top because he didn’t like the bugs, but I scrambled up there to take in the 360 panorama. It was a “I captured the castle” moment. 

Side Note: I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but I hate downhill on hiking trips. Even though it is easier from a cardiovascular standpoint, I twist my ankle at least once every time I go down a steep trail. I am usually tired after climbing up the damn hill, and I can’t concentrate enough to step properly on the way down. 

On our last night in Big Bend, we drank the Bordeaux and stared at the stars. WC farted upon arrival in the tent again, which was similarly icky. He said he didn’t do it on purpose, but I think he did. We fell asleep, and I woke up wrapped in blankets and his arms as the sun creeped up over the Chisos range.  I could have stayed there forever. 

Oh, but the story isn’t over, and it wouldn’t be funny if that is how it ended. We didn’t smoke all of the pot during our trip, and we realized that we still had a fairly large bag of good weed. After breaking down camp, I confirmed with WC that he thought it wise to shove it back in my vagina for the drive home. It was a bit more difficult to do the preparatory work at a campsite because whipping out a condom in broad daylight and shoving a wad of marijuana in it is NSFW. Camping is a family show, you know. I did most of the leg work in the car while we drove to the lodge to look for coffee. I figured the lodge bathroom would be better suited to this sort of work, but I took a few condoms and put them in my purse just in case I mucked up the packaging. I locked and loaded, we grabbed our coffee, and we headed back toward the border control checkpoint.

My cell phone had no service for the entire duration of the camping saga, and as we drove toward civilization, I received a rapid fire text string from a girl at work about how WC and I are the subject of serious speculation. If I wasn’t anxious enough about being a drug mule, my anxiety really kicked in with the knowledge that my tawdry affair with a co-worker is front page gossip. Fabulous. 

At the border patrol checkpoint, we were pulled. My palms started to sweat and I wondered if the pot smell was wafting out of my vagina. 

WC: Hello there. 

Border Patrol Guy: Hi, where are you coming from? 

WC: Camping in Big Bend. 

Border Patrol Guy: Are you both US citizens? 

WC: Yes, sir. 

Border Patrol Guy: Ok, have a nice day. 

And we drove off. I am so glad we took precautions. 

The next morning, I had to go back to work and face the music, but before any music, I needed coffee. I stopped at Starbucks on my way to work for an Americano. I brought my laptop because I wanted to check my email before I got to the office, so I made myself comfortable for a few minutes. After I was satisfied that I had a good grasp on the important emails, I closed my laptop and started packing up my belongings. My big purse was hanging open as I shoveled some cords inside of it, and I realized that all my extra condoms from drug muling were prominently on display. I was embarrassed and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Sure enough, there was a nerdy-looking, thirty-something man with a book who was giving me one of those looks like, “hey baby how’s about you use one of those with me?” I turned red, snatched up my laptop and ran out of the store.  

Way to play it cool. 

[thegoodinatx]

Stereoscopic 35mm, Superia 400, Marfa, Texas.

[chriscurnutt]

By Chris Curnutt (chriscurnutt.tumblr.com)

West Texas

[downoutatx]

Drug Trafficking and the Pursuit of Happiness

In my experience, nothing says vacation like shoving a wad of marijuana up my vagina. WC and I finally went on our first couples vacation to beautiful West Texas. My friend Lo says that we were long overdue for this sort of thing. Our little trip is reminiscent of the mini-break in Bridget Jones: 

“Hurrah. Am no longer tragic spinster but proper girlfriend of bonafide sexgod… so committed that he’s taking me on a full-blown mini-break holiday weekend.” 

We didn’t vacate on a holiday weekend, however. We took three of the same days off of work, and apparently, rumors were flying around the office during our absence. The jig is up my friends. WC and I are out and proud at work about our coupledom.

Back to our trip. You may be wondering why on God’s green earth we would ever vacation in West Texas, especially if you’ve had the opportunity to visit this corner in the world. WC was taken by the idea of Big Bend National Park, which is one of America’s least visited national parks due to its location. It is in the middle of nowhere. The blurb on their website says the following:

While the isolation of Big Bend National Park is a draw for many visitors, it also means your trip must be well prepared and carefully planned. Big Bend National Park is located in southwest Texas, a considerable distance from cities and transportation hubs. There is no public transportation to, or in Big Bend National Park.

The gist of their website is 'come prepared or die.' The park is comprised of the largest swath of protected Chihuahuan Desert, which is hot and full of wild animals. It is also on the border of Mexico, so the brochure you receive upon arrival provides instructions on what to do if you run into a border jumper. Very strange. (I’m sure that will all be sorted once Trump builds his ridiculous wall!)

WC and I began our journey by driving 6 hours to our stopover point in Marfa, a tiny artist town two hours north of Big Bend. Imagine that they built a town for a hipster western movie, and that is Marfa. We stayed in an eclectic Air BNB next to Marpho, the only pho joint in town. During our stay, we drank wine, smoked pot and rode bikes. I had the opportunity to order chicken strips from the DQ, and while this may not be news to most people, that may be the third time ever that I have happened upon a Dairy Queen. I am a little out of touch.

On the day we departed for Big Bend, we happened upon the booklet that the Air BNB owner wrote for tourists like ourselves. It essentially stated that there was a border control checkpoint on the road to the park, and the officers would search your car and find your marijuana. We brought quite a bit of pot to smoke as well as some candies that we bought from a friend in California, so WC became paranoid. Luckily, I am a veteran drug mule. My ex-husband was a die-hard pothead (among other habits), and during our many vacations to Hawaii, Mexico and Europe, I learned how to shove copious amounts of marijuana up my vagina. A few ground rules:

1. If you have the pot in a zip lock bag, remove the zipper. Zippers have pointy edges, and they will poke you.

2. Ensure you tie the bag nice and tight in a shape that your vagina will accommodate.

3. Place the pot bag into a condom for protection and ease of placement and removal, and tie that condom nice and tight.

Et voila, you’re ready to shove that stuff up there like a tampon. So I did that with our Big Bend stash. I am not sure if WC was impressed or disappointed with me. Only time will tell. We still had the pot candies to deal with, but WC had the brilliant idea that we would simply eat them 20 minutes before the border crossing. How strong could they be?

After stopping for a giant breakfast burrito in Alpine, which is the next town over from Marfa, we headed south toward Big Bend, consuming the candies per our directive. We reached the checkpoint, and we were not required to stop. No one even gave our car a second glance. I had two bags of pot up my vagina and had just eaten 3g of pot candy for naught. We laughed and turned up the Alt-J. Then we got really, really stoned.

Upon arrival at the campsite, the pot candy had kicked in to the point that I didn’t want to get out of the car. Actually, I couldn’t get out of the car. I was terrified of dealing with people, and I couldn’t move very much. The reservation was in my name, and I told WC that the team was counting on him to figure it out. I had tapped out. He was equally stoned but pulled it together long enough to chat with the park ranger. From what I could gather while listening from the safety of the car, he asked the ranger what camp site number we had reserved at least four times. It seems that he could not retain the information. Good start.

It was pretty hilarious setting up camp. Our tent was lopsided for three days.

There’s more to this story, but I need to shower for work. I shall tell you more of my life as a drug mule tomorrow. xo

[downoutatx]

When it rains

It is a bluebird day in Austin, and luckily, SXSW is finally drawing to a close. My apartment has shaken by an incessant bass beat since the festival started, and while I love music, I like the option of going home to a quiet bedroom whenever I would like a nap. Well, it’s over now. Enough whining about SXSW.  

Life has been moving in hyper speed over the past few weeks. I received a great raise at work, had my offer accepted for a condo off of South Congress, and I received a crazy job offer from a friend in Ohio. Things are moving in some indeterminate direction. I am ridiculously stressed out. 

Stress causes a strange response in my body where I break out in rashes all over. It’s less than ideal. I am going to go take a nap and hope my body calms the fuck down. 

[downoutatx]

Hipsters

The reason that people like to call themselves “hipsters” is so that they can dress up in costumes every day. 

Take me, for example. I am still not quite sure what a hipster IS, exactly, but I am always looking for an excuse to rock my cat glasses with no glass and a slouch beanie.  

[downoutatx]

The Great Indoors

Last night, I had a campout in my living room. WC and I pitched a tiny tent between the couch and the entertainment center to see whether two of us would fit inside during our trip this Saturday to Pedernales State Park. Pedernales is about an hour or so southwest of Austin, and we have assembled a group of 7-8 people who will be braving the elements (car camping) this weekend during Austin’s cold, hard winter (it will be 80 degrees on Sunday). WC owns a little two-person tent that measures 6′ x 3.5′ -- this seems more like a 1 person tent if you ask me, which is why we thought it important to test for fit before entering the wilderness. Luckily, I am little, and he likes to snuggle. We both fit nicely after a bit of jostling and a few “ow you’re on my hair” moments. We rolled out our sleeping bags, piled inside and proceeded to watch a Trainwreck through the mesh walls. 

A lot has happened since my last post, and one thing in particular is terribly exciting. WC and I are a couple. Yes, it is official, and we’re freaking adorable. If you remember, WC hasn’t been in a relationship in 12 years, which means that he requires a lot of reminders about sharing things. Nonetheless, the man is trying, and adore him. I think this is a good place to be.  

On Thursday, we’re going on a date to this art/dinner show called Monkey Town 6. You sit inside of a gigantic, immersive video cube, and they feed you a five course meal. I am picturing the tunnel in Willy Wonka’s factory. I am slightly concerned that I will not be able to eat with so much overstimulation, but when shit gets weird, I am nothing if not an optimist.  

I have the worst meeting on Wednesday mornings at 8 am, so I must finish blowdrying my hair before it looks really funny. 

[downoutatx]

Happy New Year!

I may be a day late on that Happy New Year greeting, but better late than never! Except with movies. I don’t like missing the first 5 minutes. The entire plot line is often unfolded during the intro, and if you miss that, what is the point of the movie anyway? But I digress. It’s 2016, friends. Austin is frigid right now with gray skies and twiggy trees, so I did what any good hippie would do and renewed my hot yoga membership. During the cold winter months, there is no better feeling than entering the studio and being enveloped by juicy, steamy air. My shoulders relax, I work up a sweat and I no longer have an attitude about exercise being a chore. Hot vinyasa classes are the shizzle. 

Goals for 2016: 

- Bring back the world “shizzle” 

- Become a business owner. I have started making cold brew coffee with a secret ingredient, and I think I actually have a viable product. I can’t tell you what the ingredient is quite yet as I haven’t looked intellectual property protection; however, this will be an all-natural, vegan-friendly beverage that is super hydrating, tastes like heaven and contains caffeine. I am in the R&D phase, and I am very excited about this. Best part? It gives me an excuse to drink copious amounts of coffee, and all of my supplies will be a tax write-off. #winning

- Establish a romantic relationship with a grown-up who is no more than 5 years older or younger than me and wants to have babies before I turn 35. There, I said it. That’s what I want. Oh shit. I am still dating WC, but I am not sure that he is a grown-up or that he wants a relationship. I don’t want to move onto greener pastures because I am in love with the guy; however, if we enter March, and the man is still wishy-washy about our relationship, I’m out. Six  months of dating is long enough to decide whether another person is relationship-worthy. 

- Get ripped (or at least feel good with my shirt off). My second workout of the day begins in 20 minutes, so I am going hard at this one. 

- Write.

- Read at least one book a month. This month’s book is Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. 

- Make a budget and stick to it. I am going to be fiscally responsible in 2016. Not that I wasn't fiscally responsible last year, but I am going to be even better this year, especially because I will be a business owner soon. 

That should do it. What are your resolutions? 

[downoutatx]

New Year

I haven’t sat down to write for days, weeks even. This is due, in part, to overwhelming anxiety about the holidays, which is finally beginning to subside. Right now I am seated at the airport in Long Beach, California while a man stares over my head like a seventies porn extra absentmindedly waiting for his close-up. He is wearing a $75 tangerine t-shirt with his straight mop haircut, Tom Selleck mustache and thick-rimmed aviator sunglasses. He must be headed to back to Austin with me.

If you couldn’t tell, I did survive the holidays with much of myself intact. While I did muddle through experience, it wasn’t without considerable mental anguish and the predictable crises that always accompany the holidays. Well, at least these crises occur repeatedly at my house. I don’t know what your Christmas looks like. Perhaps it is smooth sailing.

For me, a good deal of my struggle has been centered around returning to the South Bay. I realize that it isn’t uncommon to have a conflicted relationship with your hometown; however, for those of you who grew up with me, you’ll understand the particular breed of disquiet that accompanies a So Bay homecoming. First off, my parents city is full of raging assholes. Straight-up jerks, really. At a stop sign, it isn’t the person who arrived first at the stop who gets right-of-way. Rather, the person with the nicest car gets to go first. My Christmas Eve was spent at the grocery store with the horrible elite, trying to jockey for position in the meat line. My mother freaked out at Bristol Farms due to claustrophobia, so we had to stop at two more stores full of assholes. I don’t know how the health department allows these shops to remain open with all of the free-range assholes roaming about the place. In any case, we managed to buy our meat and moved into phase two of Operation Christmas.

The second problem with coming home  is my uncle. His birthday falls cruelly on Christmas Eve, which means that in addition to the normal holiday prep, we also have to celebrate a birthday. My uncle is dying because he is a raging alcoholic and heavy drug user, so it is always interesting... wrong word... terrifying? watching his birthday unfold. This year, we got to celebrate at Pat’s II Cocktail Bar, which is a cesspool of a dive bar that my ex husband and I used to frequent. I drank a very large water glass of Patron, and then my mom, uncle, grandma and I went to the Presbyterian church down the road. My mom doesn’t drink, and my grandma was having coffee. However, my uncle reeked of whiskey and was sporting a Santa hat with attached beard, while my breath emanated the pungent aroma of tequila. The pastor proceeded to explain that Martin Luther invented the Christmas tree and spouted other fun historical inaccuracies. He also encouraged people to boycott any Christmas events that have been re-labeled Holiday events because “nobody can take Christ out of Christmas.” It doesn’t seem to bother the Christians that Christ was most probably born in late September if scholars had to hazard a guest, nor do any of the pagan associations with the solstice merit consideration. My uncle talked throughout the entire service, and when it came time for communion, he proclaimed that I needed extra crackers to make up for of all of my sinning. (Very kindly fuck off.) We sang, lit a candle and went home to ready ourselves for the next round of Operation Christmas.

The following day was mercifully uneventful. My uncle was late for dinner, but other than that, we ate, played Cards Against Humanity, and exchanged gifts. Nothing says Christmas like your grandma talking about 3 dicks at once.

Yesterday, I bought new running shoes at an after Christmas sale and managed to get a pair of nice Brooks shoes for $60 after a 50% discount. I felt very accomplished. I also packed all of my costumes in my suitcase so that I can use them in Austin, which might be the costume party capital of the Americas.

The final phase of Operation Christmas was the friend phase. I struggled through the family bonding portion of the program, but friends are equally anxiety inducing in my hometown. I used to do a lot of drugs because they were always available. There wasn’t a Saturday night that would pass without a party. I went to grab dinner and drinks with a girl from my old work, and then we went to the local bar with two guys I grew up with. Within 20 minutes of installing ourselves at the bar, one guy asked if we wanted to go skiing. Clearly, there is no snow in Los Angeles right now, so we was certainly asking if we wanted to do coke. I do not like coke and politely declined, but the other three were excited about the possibility. They sourced their poison and proceeded to take bump after bump in the bathroom and even at the table. You know that you are dealing with a professional when she can take a bump off of a key in the middle of a crowded bar without anyone noticing. I politely sipped my water. Then we went back to the guys’ house so they could finish up the bag. I continued to sip my water as we listened to the Weekend and talked about life. It was 2:30 am by then, so we decided to call it a night. One of the guys squeezed my ass on my way out. I drove home, sleepy but sober, and proud of my resolve. Also, my nose is quite happy with me too.

So this was Christmas. Austin - how I have missed you.

[downoutatx]

I am stupid. I don't say that in a derogatory, I don’t like myself kind of way. It is more of a matter-of-fact statement about my suspect critical thinking skills. I finally had the exclusivity talk with WC because we have been having frequent, unprotected sex. Apparently, we have agreed to only screw each other, and if we do decide to screw someone new, we need to use condoms. That’s not the unreasonable, bad critical thinking part. The problem is that sexual exclusivity does not mean emotional exclusivity, nor does it mean that we are precluded from dating other people. He said - very concisely, might I add - that he likes me and enjoys spending time with me but can’t make any guarantees. I was trying to ascertain how long I have with him before me drops me like a bad habit, and that was the reply, along with a few admissions about his past relationship history, which is nonexistent. Also, he slept with his cousin’s husband’s sister. We just happened to spend Thankgiving, ACL and a Nerd Nite with her and her boyfriend, and he conveniently failed to mention that part until I ask him about our relationship status. Nice. It’s funny because I felt some sort of way about her the minute I met her. Like she was auditioning me because he cares about him. 

I am a highly sexually charged person (if you couldn’t tell), and I talk about sex openly. I check out men and women, and I am not afraid of experimentation. This a good thing in my estimation. Unfortunately, I haven’t mastered the art of emotional detachment in the sex department. I tend to think of this as a good thing; however, it would be a very helpful skill in this situation. The funny part is that I got my orgasm back after we had an honest conversation. So not only am I having sex with a man who doesn’t want to be with me, but the sex is fucking awesome now. 

We had our work holiday party on Friday. I planned the shindig at Speakeasy, a bar that stays true to its name and has a certain gritty, underground vibe with lots of leather chairs, a bowling alley and a pool table. I wore a ridiculous glitter dress, true to form, and I think the boss’s wife hates me. Way to play the “hot personal assistant’ card. Good job, me. (More of my awesome critical thinking skills in action.) I played pool with WC’s assistant against the boss’s wife and another guy’s wife, and I miraculously shot the winning 8 ball into the pocket. That never happens. WC’s assistant gave me a creepy hug, and it was then apparent that he wants to sleep with me too. What an interesting threesome that would be. Later, I told WC my concerns about his little protege, and he already knew that the other guy wants me. He said that he might have to have an awkward conversation with him at some point.  Does that mean that WC wants to lay claim to me? So many mixed messages. 

WC and I went out with a few co-workers after the party, including WC’s boss, our sexy hipster graphic designer, and the designer’s 23 year old girlfriend who I would like to kidnap for a wild threesome with WC and I (see: Unicorn). She is this sexy little blonde girl with an attitude who originated in Sacramento. A California girl after my own heart, really.  WC got a little grabby at the bar, holding me around the waist and touching my back. His boss who knows about us told me that she would have guessed our involvement based on his body language if I hadn’t already told her. In any case, she’d never seen the two of us together like that, and for some reason I feel some sexual tension around her and him and me. I am not sure what that means, but it is an interesting dynamic. After the after-party, the three of us went back to my place where we listened to music together and drank more beer. When she left, WC and I had wild, drunken sex until we exhausted ourselves and fell asleep next to one another. WC and I spend a lot of time together for two people who aren’t together. 

The morning after our holiday party, I woke up in his arms still drunk, and we decided to carry the party into brunch. We had bellinis and frittatas at Taverna on 2nd street, which has mediocre food and the best $2 champagne drinks in town. The waiters there are incredible -- I think that morbid, off-color joke-telling skills are apart of the job interview process. Our waiter that morning told us that he’d like to request “Jingle Bells” as the soundtrack to his funeral and talked shit about the fake blind guy who wanders the street in front of the restaurant dancing and yelling at people. You’ve got to love a fake blind guy almost as much as you love the waiter who maligns him. It was a hilarious breakfast, to say the least. 

Over mimosas, I told WC that he’s actually my frenemy because all we do is shit talk together. The strange part of this exchange was the look he had on his face when I called him a frenemy and the heart pangs I felt when he looked at me that way. It was as if I hurt him by saying that. I carried the joke into the rest of the morning and afternoon. We went to the Google Fiber station in downtown, decorated picture frames with little kids, and took raunchy photos inside of a holiday snow globe. Then we coaxed the morning into afternoon by drinking whiskey and cider at bars all across Austin. He admitted that I tick a lot of boxes on his woman qualification list, and I admitted that I don’t believe any one person is capable of ticking every box. We talked about my full relationship history -- the sordid part -- and I don’t think that he was particularly perturbed. After our afternoon of drinking, we ordered espresso coffee concoctions and kissed indoors while watching the hazy, Saturday drizzle. We have a lot of fun together, and the ease with which we talk and enjoy each other’s company is unreal. It’s like he’s my person. 

Because we drank all day, I had the genius idea that we should take the molly that was left over from the gypsy caravan that crashed at my house. I thought it would be brilliant if we enjoyed the trip by walking a few miles to the Trail of Lights, a giant christmas light show in Zilker Park. Apparently everyone in the entire city decided to go to the same destination. We showed up rolling, feeling nauseous, trying not to step on any small children. We were very high and very uncomfortable in the 75 degree freak-heatwave on Saturday night. It was overstimulation at its finest, and it was terrifying. After the trail, we headed to the giant Christmas tree that was fashioned from the moon tower and over 3,000 lights hanging from the top. If you spin beneath the tree, it looks like an immersive light-up top rotating above your head. WC was too tripped out to spin, but we were both giggling like crazy. We stopped laughing long enough to share a kiss beneath the tree. It was wildly romantic. This might be the MDMA talking, but that kiss felt like everything. 

We walked back to my house after the Trail of Lights, and we were pooped after a four mile walk and a crazy night. We tried to go to sleep, but instead of drifting into oblivion, we ended up having the most mind-blowing sex of my life. I had the biggest orgasm in recent memory. OMFG. 

I drove him back to his place around 11 am today after we enjoyed breakfast tacos and espresso drinks at Dominican Joe’s around the corner. We were both wildly disheveled after our weekend of sex, drinking and debauchery. He told me that I am beautiful today, and I couldn’t take the compliment. After I dropped  him off today, I realized a terrible thing. I may be in love with him, and he doesn’t want to be with me. 

My computer battery is about to die, so this is my goodnight. Happy holidays, friends. 

[austin360]

Let it snow, Austin-style http://atxne.ws/1RC4Grf Download the Austin-themed snowflake stencils PDF: http://atxne.ws/1SLFi0F

[downoutatx]

So that’s everything I want the holidays to be. 

[downoutatx]

Anxiety

Austin winters are strange -- one day will be borderline icy, while the next will allow you to sunbathe in a tank top. This pattern is similar to my experience in Southern California (minus the actual ice), so my wardrobe is accommodating. That’s the good news. 

The bad news is that I haven’t been able to write for the past week or so, and I finally had myself a little meltdown yesterday. There is no logical explanation, and I don’t generally have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It as if all of the important moments are coming to a head - a reckoning, if you will. That’s all life is, really, An amalgam of important moments, people. I tend to push things out of my mind when I don’t want to think about them, but you can’t run from your past or your present because, well, it’s yours. I find that when you ignore things and manage to lull yourself into a false sense of security, pianos drop on your head. This is why you’re supposed to deal with issues head-on instead of ignore them. 

My friends from studying abroad in Bordeaux came to visit over the weekend. We talked at length about our lives, as girls do. It was so nice to catch up with them and learn about their realities; however, I also shared my own journey over the last five years. This was similar to discounted therapy. I always laughed at the word “trigger,” but this is a thing. Triggers exist. Talking about my past is a trigger for me. 

During my friends’ visit, I sent an apologetic message to another girl who we studied abroad with who recently lost her husband. I haven’t talked to her in 10 years, and it may have been wildly out of line. Still, her Facebook posts make me weepy, and I wanted to reach out.  

(Disclaimer: This post is going to be all over the place. My mind is spaghetti.)

In other news, my IUD seems to be settling in nicely, but “placement” was an interesting medical experience. Paragard is non-hormonal, so I can’t blame any of this influx of emotion on birth control, nor am I ovulating, which I learned is a potent reason for having feelings. Last Tuesday I went in for my placement at 2:30 pm. It was supposed to take 5 minutes, and it ended up taking 30. The nice OB put me in the stirrups and began the painful experience of placing the damn thing until the first IUD turned out to be defective. I have a high pain tolerance, and I only took an ibuprofen to mitigate the cramping. Apparently, my vaginal walls aren’t bothered by prodding, so that is the good news. During the doctor’s first attempt, she placed the IUD incorrectly in my cervix while I writhed. Then she fired her nurse while I was spreadeagle and got another nurse to join us in the room who reset the entire affair. I liked the second nurse much better. Then we began again with help from an ultrasound machine.  During the second attempt, the doctor reportedly put it in the right place, and she gave me an awesome printout from the ultrasound machine like it was a baby. Turns out, my IUD looks like a boxcar if you juxtapose it next to my intestines. My intestines line up perfectly like little wheels, while the IUD comprises the top of the little car. How freaking cute.

Fast forward to Wednesday. WC took me out for a sushi dinner at this new place in East Austin called Fukumoto. The sushi was good, and he gazed across the table at me like a man in love. Despite the fact that I had the IUD placed the day before, we went back to my place and had sex. I didn’t get off, but I enjoyed myself and wasn’t in pain. We didn’t use a condom, and we still haven’t had any  kind of grown up talk about our relationship status. That alone should be a little anxiety inducing. It is Nerd Nite again today, which will mark the third Nerd Nite since I started dating this man. We’re approaching three months, but who is counting? I am crazy about him. He knew I was having a bad day yesterday, and he offered to cheer me up. His advice was to go and get some cardio. That is the best advice I have received from a man in a long time. 

Fast forward to Friday. The girls and I went to Hotel Vegas, which is my go-to for dancing and general shit shows. WC came and met us, and I introduced him to the girls. They approved. I got very drunk, ditched the girls and went back to his place for a sleepover. I shake my head at myself a lot, but this was not my finest hour. I woke up in his arms around 5 am on Saturday, and the first thing out of my mouth was, “Damnit, I didn’t mean to sleep here. I just came over to have sex.” I’m a real charmer. I gave myself a wicked hangover and spent Saturday like a zombie with the girls. We still had fun; however, I was sober that day, and I didn’t dance when we went to White Horse in the evening. I needed a nap. 

My anxiety “episode” began when I dropped off all the friends at the airport on Sunday. Something was not right, and it got progressively worse. I don’t have anxiety attacks, so the feeling of being gripped with palpable fear was foreign to me. I put myself to bed early on Sunday because I couldn’t stop freaking out. Monday was very hard, and I went to happy hour with the girls, which did not help at all. I cried at the bar. Then yesterday was downright awful. I cried so much. I am surprised I made it through the day. I tried to take myself to yoga, but I parked in the wrong spot and didn’t have time to move the car before class. Parking downtown is the worst. I went to Trader Joe’s and bought shampoo and veggies instead. They validate. 

I went to bed early again last night and slept till morning. Today is going to be a better day. Everything is going to be ok. I am going for a quick 2 mile jog, and then I will get ready for work. One foot in front of the other. I don’t need to run screaming back to California. I am giving myself a pep talk here. I think it is working. 

[downoutatx]

Sex Stains

Instead of dragging my chilly butt out of bed this morning to squeeze in some writing, I slept in, buried under a warm, stained comforter. I did four loads of laundry yesterday, but I failed to wash the coverlet that I sleep with. That was bad planning on my part, or maybe I just don’t mind the sex stains. 

Speaking of sex stains (wow, that was an awkward segue), I spent three days straight with WC. The culmination of our time together was a very drunk Friday night, during which time he ejaculated inside of me without a condom. It was that time of the month, so my alarm level wasn’t as high as it could have been; however, I spent yesterday $50 poorer with stomach cramps from the morning after pill. It was a mistake on his part, obviously. I feel as if I should be in a relationship before a man feels comfortable busting inside of me. We need to have the talk. 

Having finally worked out my insurance, I get my copper IUD placed tomorrow. Wish me luck. 

I can’t wait until happy hour this evening. I need some girl chat to process this weekend with the manboy. 

Happy Monday, Lovelies!

[downoutatx]

Sex in the City reruns make me want to take up smoking cigarettes seriously.