Something Clever.

on The Dentist's Chair

2010-11-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

I'm not very scared of the dentist. In fact my mother used to tell me I was "sick" because I "liked" going to the dentist. It wasn't that I LIKED going to the dentist, it was just that I liked the way I felt when it was all over. Like my mouth and I, together, accomplished a great feat of impossible daring. Such was the dentist... when I was 15.

Now my dentist visits consist of blood and guts. No, really. I got my implant -yay- back in May and ever since then it seems like I'm going to be bleeding when I leave a visit. Such was the result of my visit today, clearing my dear implant of any foreign objects that might cross its path.

But! NONE of this is the point. I'm writing today about the peculiarity of the dentist's chair. What an awkward place to be! I'm laying there half-stoned clutching desperately onto a shirt-tail or my own thumbs or the inside of my pocket. It squeaks--no matter what, even if I just flex a butt cheek, it squeaks. And looming to my left, power drills the size of Montana are about to bore their ways through my gums, and saws with teeth sharper than the sharpest shark (what?) are ready to wipe away the remainder of my pitiful teeths.

Normally, when the tools are silenced and the suction has suctioned out all the blood and guts it can find, I'm left with the sound of the second hand on the drug-company-sponsored clock hanging over my head. Tick, tick, tick: Jeanna, you're one second closer to your imminent mouth-altering demise.

Today, however, my dentist was WAY COOL. We were the only team left in the room, and she put on some alt-rock Pandora pretty loud. We were jamming to The Fray and Rob Thomas and Kelly Clarkson and... and. Oh. SHIT. Jimmy Eat m-f-ing World.

Yes, that's right: A Praise Chorus started blaring through her laptop's speakers and I was stuck with a drill in my mouth and a finger up my nose (or so it felt). A Praise Chorus! Of all of the songs in the world, WHY THIS ONE?! Cabral joked with me that perhaps at some point in my life I was hypnotized to COMPULSIVELY DANCE LIKE A MANIAC any time I heard this song... a hypothesis that doesn't seem quite off. My feet, they start moving. My arms, they do some throwback-monkey-white-girl dance. My ass shakes and... and my head... my head bobs... MUST. NOT. BOB. HEAD. Large drill inside mouth. Must not move... Can't... Must fight... the dancing... FEELING......

And just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, Jimmy Eat World wanted to fall in love tonight for the last time. For three and a half grueling minutes, my need for dancing had taken over every non-numb part of my body. And now it was over.

Thank God, right?

WRONG. Because what happened next was even more excruciating than I could have ever predicted.

Yes, that's right: VINDICATED started blaring through her laptop's speakers, and I was stuck with no earplugs and no drill and no saw and no talking and not even a second hand to block it out. WHY?! THIS?! ONE?!

There I was. Stuck in the dentist's chair. The dentist asked me how I was doing. How could I tell her that the most horrifying song in on the planet had just come on her Pandora and she needed to push the Thumbs Down ASAP? I could barely even garble out a "mhhbbgggsrrhh" through the muck and mire before she turned on the drill again, not loud enough to dull the pain of Dashboard Confessional penetrating my ears.

Stuck in the dentist's chair. Sounds like a good review of a horrible, horrible song.

on Comic Sans

2010-10-12T12:23:00.001-07:00

Today, I put Comic Sans in my mouth, for the pure pleasure of being able to purge it out.

That's right, Comic Sans: DREAM BIG. Your dreams are futile while swimming around in my stomach acids, and will be crushed by the time they enter my intestinal tract. You will leave this world the same way in which you came: crappy!

on Contraptions

2010-10-05T13:01:00.000-07:00

I've been having a problem with this stray cat. See, stray cat knows that Otto inhabits the insides of my dwelling place, and stray cat likes to hop up onto my patio fence and lounge around inside my patio, taunting poor Otto with his menacing looks and large, erm, paws. He struts back and forth and Otto MEWS with all his might, hoping that I'll wake up and let him outside to meet his new friend.

Poor Otto doesn't know that new friend would probably kill him with one little slap (Otto's kinda wimpy). Unfortunately, this does not stop stray cat from prancing around, laughing to himself that Otto cannot come out and play.

Well...
NOT ANYMORE.

Last night, I engineered what I am calling The Ultimate Catraption: the cat trap contraption rivaled only by real chicken wire and foxes across the nation.

(Click for larger, more in-depth and completely precise view)

Here's the idea: the fishing line is pretty much invisible, shocking the cat when he tries to jump on the fence and sending him into a state of frenetic fury. He then goes and tells his other cat friends not to mess with that patio in building 6, and the cat party stops right there.

And last night, IT WORKED! There was no mangy stray cat gracing my patio with his seemingly phantom presence, and Otto and I got a solid night's sleep. As an added bonus, I was able to sleep with the glass door open and have a cool, 50-degree breeze billow through the screen.

Let's just hope it holds out through the rest of this awesome weather.

on Pie

2010-10-01T09:20:00.001-07:00

Best. Photo. Sequence. EVER: St. Mary's Pie a Chi Phi

on Dumpster Diving

2010-09-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in everyone's life--I'm pretty sure--that, when driving by a dumpster, they think to themselves: "I just have to have that _______."

Today, that ______ for me was a beautiful, turquoise-stained wooden pallet. I've been craving a pallet for quite a while now, and it just so happened that the perfect pallet was waiting for me on top of the dumpster at the Toys-R-Us at Blanco and 410. There was no question in my mind: I had to have that pallet.

After climbing on top of my car (sorry, car), lifting the pallet out of the dumpster, almost dropping it and falling off the car instead (with the pallet landing on top of me, of course), I managed to scoot it over to my back seat. This thing has to weigh at least 50 pounds, but there is no way I'm leaving it here... I've gotten this far.

Lucky for me, a nice guy pulled over to help me load it up, and the awesome manager at my apartment complex helped me get it out of the car and into the house.

So, now I have a pallet. A perfect, beautiful, heavy-as-hell pallet ...that I have NO idea what I'm going to do with.

Just look at it! Look at the details, the colors, the little dents and etchings...
this is going to be a project of epic proportions!

on Weekends

2010-09-19T19:48:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since I had a "Weekend," but in the past couple of weekends, I've had some amazing ones.

Three weekends ago, I took a semi-spontaneous trip to Chicago. Train rides, day drunk, Michigan Avenue, art school, Chinatown, downtown, and about 40 miles of walking later, I realized what'd I'd been missing out on: genuine, non-stop fun. Then again, it was one of my first real "Weekend"s since college, and I suppose I'd just been missing it more than I realized.

But this past weekend was no match for that Illinois city... who knew that so much else could happen right here at home. On Friday I got stuck in a flood, had someone run into my car in a parking lot, dressed in a Dirndl, chugged beer with the German club, bought shots for some European guys in a sketchy smokey bar, built an amazing art project, drove three hours through a hurricane, took Julie out for her 21st birthday in Houston, got pulled over and sobriety-tested while wearing boxers and a hoodie, lost my ID, found my ID, went to Buc-ees!!!, got home at 4 in the morning, went to church, cooked homemade biscuits, and got 1/4 through building a website.

Next weekend is La Grange and maybe Mexico; two weekends after that it's back to Chicago again. All with 6 bucks in my bank account and two massive blisters on my heels.

David was right. It's a pretty exhilarating feeling, to start conquering the world again.

on Projects

2010-08-17T16:15:00.000-07:00

It had been a while since I worked on a project. A REAL project. Not just putting new wall hangers on the back of old pictures or buying organization at Target to try to make myself seem tidier.

Then, a gangsta-ass artist (ok not really) dropped a set of truly amazing paintings in my lap, and I felt inspired:

I thought to myself, I can't let this kid go to Chicago without making him something in return. Hours of sweating over a hot iron (no joke) I finally came up with this: a photograph printed on multiple pieces of fabric, sewn together with thick thread and stretched over a frame.

It feels good to do projects again.

on 238,000 Good Memories

2010-07-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

I wrote this letter to Chevy today:

Dear Chevy,

This past weekend, my mother was involved in an accident which left her 2001 Tahoe totaled. I cannot tell you enough how much Mom loved this Tahoe (or the Taco, as we called it, though I have no idea why).

I grew up with Chevy. My family had Suburbans for as long as I can remember, until my mom "switched" to a Tahoe in 2001. My Grandaddy had a 'Burban with over 300,000 miles on it, and it was still running when we gave it away. My first car was even a Suburban, from the year I was born (1986)... ah, the good ol' days.

Anyway, I digress: Mom's Tahoe is now kaputt. She was pretty upset when it the accident happened, but even more upset when she found out there was nothing she could do to save the poor soul. And as she was unpacking the back--"for the last time," she said sadly--she made a comment that I will never forget. She said, "There are 238,000 good memories in this thing."

238,000 good memories. 238,000 miles of mission trips to Mexico (she'd always volunteer to drive us crazy kids there and back); 238,000 miles of school trips and football games (she was always the loudest in the stands); 238,000 miles of spontaneous road trips to the beach or the mountains... yes, I'd say she was quite right. 238,000 good memories.

It touched me enough to write you a letter about it, as I just wanted to let you know... as corny as it may seem, I don't know that those 238,000 miles could have ever been put on anything else. And, I do hope Mom gets a new Chevy soon... because she's got a lot more memories to go!

A Logo For Otto

2010-06-21T18:23:00.000-07:00

I made a logo for the one and only Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer:

Ok, so it's kind of a knock-off. I don't think he'll mind ;)

on Shopping and Driving

2010-05-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

I noticed yesterday that people drive their shopping carts the same way they drive their cars.

Instance 1: Man on Cell Phone
Scenario: I'm driving along in the right lane of a four-lane isle in target. A man takes a right into the isle, merging nicely in behind me, when he decides to step on it and pass me in the left lane. I'm ok with this--I'm going slower, he has the right to pass. As said man begins to speed up beside me, he gets a call on his cell phone. This, of course, causes him to slow down drastically, making the other fast-paced woman behind him come to a halting stop. Now, he's interchangeably increasing and decreasing his speed, not only making it impossible to pass him, but making it impossible for the other cart drivers to maintain a consistent rate of speed until their next isle exits. This man--I hate him. And he doesn't care, because he's on his cell phone and NOTHING ELSE is as important as that.

Instance 2: Soccer Mom in Mini Van
Scenario: The isles are bustling with traffic, each cart driver keeping to his or her own respective space. Some are reaching for pasta sauce, some for cookies, all anxious to go home and cook dinner. But then comes Mad Mom. She's got her two kids strapped into the front of the cart, and they're wailing about not getting toys. She's on a mission. She's gotta get home. She's gotta get the first load in the laundry. She's the only one with rights on the road right now, so get out of her way--and this is all completely logical to her. She's risking her kid's LIVES going 1/4 miles an hour through the isles, weaving in and out of traffic in a real-life Mario (Shopping) Kart. And she's winning.

Instance 3: Guy Who Doesn't Use His Blinker
Scenario: Ok, Ok, I know. Shopping carts don't have blinkers. BUT, there is a common courtesy when shopping that, if one is turning down the isle, he or she looks left, looks right, and looks left again, then heads visibly in the direction of the isle with a smile and a nod. It's a non-verbal communication that is essential to the shopping-with-a-shopping-cart experience, even more necessary when you're at the only grocery store in a 20-mile radius at 5:30 pm on a workday afternoon. But then there's that guy, who rams his cart into the center isle, or jerks into another lane, or cuts you off in the check-out line... all without the slightest signal of intention or direction. But why not? I mean, he's the only person in the store that really matters anyway.

Result: An Open Letter to Shoppers around the World
Dear Shoppers: Please be nice. Please be courteous. Please remember that there are other people who have to get places, too. Stay alive--don't text and drive.

on Sick

2010-03-06T17:38:00.000-08:00

It's only happened to me a few times. Something makes me so upset that I get sick. Dizzy, nauseous, clammy, cold. Before I know it I'm worshiping the porcelain god, successfully having taken my mind off whatever was bothering me--even if only for a brief few seconds.

Before you decide that I'm embarking on a self-indulgent sob story, hear me out. This kind of thing, until recently, had only happened to me on extremely rare occasions. I don't really enjoy puking, and pepto just doesn't help. So, I decided that the next time I started thinking too hard, I'd Google myself a distraction that didn't involve having to eat another dinner.

What to Google? Funny YouTube videos? Seasons of The Office? Extra-Difficult Sudoku? I wasn't feelin' it. Digg was a bit too liberal today, and I still can't navigate Reddit without wanting to pull out my hair. Not even Tetris was helping. So what do I Google? "Something to make me happy."

After scrolling past the ad-words self-help sites, I came across a do-it-yourself guide to having 100 things to make you happy. Boy, talk about a distraction. I quickly opened TextEdit and thought, "Well, this is going to be easy."

Not so much.

After half an hour, I had a list of 18 things. It was harder than I thought.

1. Popcorn
2. Otto
3. Learning
4. Singing to music in the car
5. Fresh vegetables
6. Julie (and all of my family, really, but Julie especially)
7. John Knox Ranch
8. The feeling of somewhat sore muscles after a bout of strenuous exercise
9. Making art
10. Remembering a joke, and telling it again
11. Finishing a project, no matter how big or small
12. Homemade chocolate milkshakes
13. Courtesy
14. Finally putting away the clean laundry
15. Snail mail
16. The beach and summer's first sunburn
17. Accidentally-good photographs
18. Lazy evenings without the TV on

Unfortunately, the hardest thing was NOT including things that would get me thinking again. There are so many things that used to make me happy, that I would give a lot to have back. If I can only get to 18... it means I'm only 82 away from 100.

As an aside,
This is pretty helpful too:

on COMPUTERZ

2010-02-27T10:29:00.000-08:00

For reasons I care not to elaborate upon, I found myself in the big city of Bandera this weekend in desperate need of a Compact Flash (CF) Card Reader. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 16, I had three choices: a 1980s-inspired Super S, a "Gun & Pawn" down Main, and a little strip-mall store with a lime-green sign blaring "COMPUTERZ". Seeing as how the Super S and the Gun & Pawn had no guarantee of anyone knowing what a CF Card was, much less how to read one (is it like a Hallmark card or what?), I went with COMPUTERZ and crossed my fingers. At least this store had somewhat entered the 90s.

I pulled into the Chevron/Tattoo Parlor/COMPUTERZ parking lot, which was naturally filled with quad-cab Dodge Rams and F-250s and cute cowboys with too-tight blue jeans and steel-toed boots (this IS the Cowboy Capital of the World), my hopes began to dwindle. Three men tipped their hats at me from the car to the curb, and my hopes sank even further. CF was going to be as foreign here as Twitter and ethnic equality.

Opening the door, COMPUTERZ was exactly what I'd imagined it to be. An old guy with a half-blad head and twenty-year beard was sitting behind a counter that was decorated in bright green rope lights. Motorola flip phones from 1996 were stacked in the glass shelving underneath, and the walls were littered with changeable covers for the Noika 3310. I had stepped back in time a decade, and the cigarette-smoking beard dude didn't seem to mind being here.

"Can I help you?" he asked, putting his cigarette out on the countertop. "Sure," I replied. "I'm looking for a CF Card reader, or, at least for the cord to connect a card reader to a USB port."

I shouldn't have been shocked by his response. "A what? A cord for a card?"

Jesus. COMPUTERZ was still working in command prompt on MS DOS. "I'm looking for a memory card reader; if you don't have the reader itself, I'm looking for the cord that would potentially connect the reader to the USB port in the computer."

His reply was a muddled mix of "uh huh" and "what the hell", and I followed him back to the rear of the store, where he had cords of all kinds hanging from pegs in the wall. "Think you can find it over here?" he asked, looking down at me. Of course I could find it... but would I be locked in the store and stuffed in a closet in the process?

As I sifted through cords I'd definitely never seen before, dude picked up a different cigarette off a different desk and lit up. I found the cord I was looking for--though it looked like a beaver had attempted to build a chewed-up house out of it--before he could take his first long drag, and asked him how much he'd sell it to me for. "Twenty bucks," he said, and I couldn't help it: I laughed in his face. "Twenty bucks?!" I replied; "These things with the readers actually attached are 15 bucks brand new."

"Oh," he replied, somewhat puzzled. Then a look of clarity came over his face, and he re-put-out his cigarette stub. "You mean, one of these things?" He walked over to a visibly broken monitor and pulled a trusty Targus 6-in-1 card reader out from a heap of rubbish. "Yes," I said. "One of those things."

"Uh, twenty bucks." I laughed again. "Look, lady, do you want it or not?"

It was life or death; card reader or no card reader. If the luckiest I was going to get was a used, beaver-chewed card reader, I better take my luck and run. I had eighteen bucks in cash in my wallet, which was good enough for him. I collected my card reader--along with my wits--and dashed out the door. My three cowboy friends were still gathered in the parking lot. They politely nodded at me again, in succession.

***

I've lived in small towns all of my life. For a brief four months I lived in Denton, which is small town enough; for five years I lived in San Antonio which is smaller than people might think. But I grew up in a true small town, and reside in one now. I do so by choice. People in small towns have something that people in big cities do not: trust. We trust our neighbors; we trust our police officers and tax collectors; we trust people we won't ever even know. We do this, because without this trust, we'd just live in a smaller, shittier version of a "bad side of the city". Figuratively, of course.

Why COMPUTERZ brings me to appreciate this, I have no idea. I started thinking about Bandera as I drove away from that store, which turned my thoughts to Boerne and then to San Antonio. Certainly, had I walked into a store called COMPUTERZ in good ol' SA, it would be for a going-out-of-business battle that the local owner was losing to the new Best Buy across the street. Old dude with beard wouldn't be making his living anymore trying to cheat twenty bucks of ignorant-looking small girls. And three cowboys wouldn't be standing in the parking lot, waiting for the chance to get the door to the convenience store behind them.

Small towns hold these keys to the past--that, granted, aren't always the best for growth or life--that keep them rooted in what's important. Not what's important to the girl in the Passat that's just stopping by, but what's important to them, their fathers, their grandfathers, and what they want to teach as important to their sons and their grandsons.

I'm rambling. I guess what I meant to say by this whole story is that while the rest of the world has moved on to value THINGS, there are a handful of small towns out there that have shunned the moving on so that they can still value VALUES. How this came up from COMPUTERZ, I guess I'll never know.

on Faith

2010-01-11T19:01:00.001-08:00

Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis.

on Teeth.

2009-12-06T06:05:00.000-08:00

There is a song that goes, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth." Well, since I am missing my Upper Left Lateral, this song seems quite fitting. I wrote my parents a note saying that I am saving up money to buy my tooth for Christmas, and they set up a cool thing for me. So for the one person (maybe two) who ever read this, you can help me buy my next body part.

Dear friends and family members:
As most of you know, my status as a 'slack-jawed yokel' has far run its course, as the hole between my Upper Left Central tooth and my Upper Left Cuspid has become quite an annoying presence (or lack thereof). Though I have had my fair share of fun pretending to have my tooth fall out if someone accidentally bumps into my mouth, or taking it out to be a farmgirl for Halloween, it is time to fill that hole with a shiny new piece of porcelain tooth. As we look towards a new year, I am also looking forward to having my Dental insurance run out, so I am in need of filling this toothless gap as soon as possible. What a fantastic gift it would be, to find a shiny new tooth under my Christmas tree!

In other words, all I want for Christmas is my one front tooth, and I can't do it without your help (aka money). I know that money is really impersonal, but really--you have no idea what a personalized gift this would be for me. You could even tell all your friends that you helped buy someone a body part for Christmas.

on Chips

2009-11-29T09:18:00.000-08:00

I will never be able to move to Mexico if I don't stop wasting all my money on these damned potato chips:

on Thailand

2009-11-09T10:08:00.000-08:00

What is it about a warm beer buzz in the early morning hours that makes me want to move to Thailand?

It wasn't my idea. It was just a thought at first, spawned by Lord knows what crisis or contemplation. It was a "Let's move to Thailand" that didn't have any seriousness or weight. And hell, why not? With a 500$/month price tag, it doesn't sound all that bad.

Enter logic and reason, telling me that I couldn't survive a day without HEB or Family Guy, or that it's probably pretty difficult to pay student loan bills on time while living across the world. I suppose this is where the beer buzz comes in. The logic and the reason start to fade away and I'm left with the burning urge to go somewhere, anywhere, if just to have the experience of starting something new.

A simple Google search in the middle of the work day brought the logic and reason back to reality. Evidently, it's not that easy to move to Thailand... but doesn't that make getting there all the more intriguing? Evidently, it's not that easy to find a job in Thailand, unless you planning on teaching or making your own. Evidently, it't just not what you might expect.

Honestly, Thailand, I didn't have that high of expectations in the first place. Sure, it wouldn't be the United States--not Texas or Boerne or a 900 square foot apartment with central air and heat. But there you go: it's not the United States. And, sure, I'd miss my family and my three or four friends, but what is life if you don't go fucking crazy and just pick up and move to Thailand?

At 2:30 in the afternoon, I've been staring at a computer for 6 straight hours today, and though I don't have that warm beer buzz yet this afternoon, I am starting to realize why that "Move to Thailand" voice is getting louder and louder.

Ugh. I don't think I even know where Thailand is on a map.

on Health and Health Care

2009-10-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

I'm torn. I am too poor to afford Health Insurance but I do not want anyone else paying for it for me. I'm supposed to be a good Conservative here, but I'm torn.

Before my recent medical debacle, I have always considered myself a fairly healthy person. I eat right and don't like dessert. I don't really exercise that much, but I love being outside, and figure that I get enough exercise being mad and storming around the office all day, running amok when possible.

But the time has come for my fantastic medical insurance to run out. And I mean fantastic. I had coverage for anything and everything thanks to my short time at the Express-News. Obama (yeah, I know) even extended my COBRA coverage and helped me pay for it--and I didn't even have to ask him!

However, now I must ween myself off government assistance and dive into the world of the self-insured. Self-employed, self-sufficient, I might as well be self-insured, too; right? One small problem: I flat out can't afford it. I cannot afford to pay some dude to sell me some other dude's promise that IF I get sick I MIGHT have some financial assistance for it.

Perhaps I am way too uneducated on public policy to even begin to understand this debate. Or too conservative at heart. Or something. Do conservatives even have hearts? Anyway. I'm torn, and I don't know that there is any easy answer besides "Get Richer."

on The Horrible yet Undeniable Fact that One Cannot Possibly Repossess Lost Time

2009-09-08T19:19:00.000-07:00

I was sitting on the couch a couple of evenings ago, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin, when it struck me: I am sitting on the couch, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin. Not just any couch: my couch. Not just any TV: my TV. And not just any cat: my cat. All these things are mine mine mine.

Wow, I'm vapid and narcissistic and it's only 9 p.m.!

But back to me: for a fleeting moment, I looked around my wonderful and wonderfully clean apartment and realized that I am proud of myself. I am proud of the efforts I have made to be who, where, and what I am today. I'm a pretty decent person, though sometimes I drink too much. I'm mostly nice to people, and believe that getting through the day with a smile on my face is one of my best qualities. I have an amazing job that I absolutely love and wouldn't trade for anything, I have a cat who wakes me up in the morning with cold little nose kisses, and I have a fireplace. A fireplace!

For a 23 year old with bundles of student loans and a car that I don't actually own, I think I'm doing pretty well. I work, I make money, I pay bills, and I buy myself a bottle of wine at the end of the week. I'm happy; I'm supposed to be.

I guess this is the point in my life and in this ridiculously redundant blog entry that I go ahead and admit it: I would give anything to NOT be where I am today.

I remember when I could stay up till 5 or 6 in the morning, crash for a 40 minute nap, and then ace a final exam at 8:30. I want it back. I remember when I could sit down with a different group of friends every day for lunch, happy with pizza or Ramen or an extra-large Coca Cola from the fountain. I want it back. I remember vodka and kool-aid, the ability to study for 48 hours straight, the sanity to deviate from a schedule for a road trip or a trip to the room down the hall.

There was a piano in the practice rooms in the music building; a grand piano, and the keys were perfect. It wasn't always in tune. It didn't matter. I had a magical card with a magical magnetic strip that would open the door to this magical piano. Maybe I just miss that card the most.

Jeanna, here's your lesson: the couch that's yours, the TV that's yours, the cool orange light-up flowers and the Teflon frying pans don't mean shit without the things that actually do mean something. And since, it seems, I can't get those things back--no Coates or piano practice rooms or hammocks and 6-packs--I must do my best to get them again.

I feel like I'm writing fiction, or a terrible Lifetime screenplay. But it's how I feel: I want these things again, the things that aren't "things," but memories and smiles and laughter and energy. And I will have them.

on Last-Minute Mornings

2009-07-27T05:06:00.000-07:00

It's 7:06 a.m. and I've been awake for two hours and two minutes now. After propelling myself groggily out of bed and stumbling over to the coffee maker—a pot this morning, instead of a cup—I sat down in front of my computer and told myself something I haven't told myself since the end of my thesis days in college: Write, Jeanna, just effing write.

It feels like it's been forever since I've truly procrastinated. Have I been procrastinating procrastination? Before I confuse myself, I'll get to the point: why is it so damn exhilarating for me to do everything last-minute? I'm staring at a 2000 word essay here; why the hell am I staring at it on deadline morning? Shouldn't this have been done days and days ago?

Well, yes. Should being the operative word. I can think of so many "should"s when it comes to producing work last-minute, and they all, now in retrospect, make me smile. My best piece of art for 2D class was done in 15 minutes; my favorite (and final) essay for American Lit was done five hours before class started, most of it in my head while listening to the Quadrophenia album in its entirety; my senior thesis, for the year I had to work on it, wasn't essentially even started until 6 weeks before its final due date. Yet these are works that I remember, that I remember being the most proud of. Why?

With all of the college memory throwback—hell, I talked to my best UNT friend on the phone last night and relived half of my best college days anyway, might as well go all out this morning (in light of the theme of procrastination and still not getting my story written)—I remembered a website that Career Services or Academic Advancement or some department pointed us to during our first weeks of school: the CalTech Counseling Center site on Procrastination. Notice their reasons for procrastination: Avoidance, A Matter of Will, A Matter of Time, of Approach, even the Failure of Success. If you really read the list, you might find it as bogus as I do.

This website, and the countless others in the Google searchbar like it, all list the same, common factors in procrastination and a procrastinating lifestyle. The psychological evidence seems to prove beyond a theoretical doubt that putting things off is just a superficial way of putting one's self off, not giving the self enough credit to do the things the self strives to achieve. Studies show that procrastinators have to completely change their lives to make room for their last-minute habits, and that, when those habits are not psychologically dealt with, they can have physically adverse effects on things far from homework or getting to the game on time.

However, every single one of these bullshitters probably put together their respective websites last minute, forgetting the one and only thing that makes procrastination fully, truly, vividly worthwhile: the amazing caffeine buzz from the two—or five, or seven—cups, instead of one, of amazingly dark coffee and the warmth, the rush, the elation one feels inside, saying, "Hey, look at me. I did that, it's DONE, and I'm bad ass."

Ha! 24 minutes later, I can get back to music review crunch time. Let me just go pour myself another cup.

on Games

2009-07-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

I was really, really sick on Friday, and I tried to start writing a blog entry. I was watching a movie, and I heard a quote that struck me with a great conundrum. I couldn't figure out how to begin the entry, so I just started: "I'm watching this movie, and one of the main characters just said, 'Life is not a game.'"

So I started thinking: if life is not a game, then what is it? And I tried to look up quotes about life not being a game. Turns out, I found more quotes about life being a game instead of not being one. Life seems to be a game of basketball, chance, checkers, chess, cat and mouse, Chutes and Ladders, football, Life the board game, poker, roulette, soccer, tennis, volleyball, wit, and wonder. And a whole bunch of semi-famous people all had advice to offer me on how to play the game of life, and what rules I should (but don't have to) follow in order to win, albeit gracefully and with little controversy mixed in.

This, however, is where my conundrum begins to fester. According to [insert random quote attribute here], the rules of life tell me that I can't double-dribble, catch a bullet, have an Ace in the hole, go first if I'm black, set a mousetrap, roll the dice out of turn, use my hands, or let the ball drop. When I go out of bounds I have to start over, when I land on the "Go to College" space I have to pay 40 grand, and when I score no points it's "love". King me.

on Timing

2009-06-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

I've more than once settled on the fact that I have impeccably imperfect timing. For as long as I can remember, I have made decisions that have missed some mark or some moment, causing a ranging scale of distress or disturbance. I don't know if this character flaw is a recent addition, or if I've just started to notice it more, but I can recall several instance where it has definitely not worked to my advantage.

As a senior in high school, my best friend Ashley and I spent our entire Spring Break on South Padre Island, partying with my brother, his friends, some random guys we met from (guess where!) Trinity, and, of course, my parents. After enjoying a delicious fish sandwich at a bar where my parents had gotten us both sufficiently liquored up, we decided that it was a bit chilly for us to stay there--why not make the 200-yard walk back to the condo to pick up a sweater? The walk took all of 5 minutes, but it wasn't until we were up to the condo gate that we realized we forgot the key. So it was back to the bar to grab the key to come back to grab the sweater.
"Not so fast, ladies; where do you think you're going?"
The voice was coming from the driver's side of a purple Camaro, from a man in an all-black police uniform. We'd seen that same Camaro less than 15 seconds before, and we'd both commented on how ghetto it seemed. So, of course, what else would we have been doing? We were obviously trying to run from the highly undercover police officer, break into a condo, and, when noticing we'd be unsuccessful, turning around to run away. Obviously. Our obvious mistake got us both slapped with MIPs that were induced by our parents. Why the hell not.

My first semester in college (at UNT) I acquired a pretty head-over-heels crush on my best friend there. He, of course, had a head-over-heels crush on his girlfriend who was still at home, a thousand or so miles away. Throwing basic human respect to the wind, I did everything I could to show him how much he meant to me.
I transferred schools after one semester and pretty much gave up, but missed him every day. Months went by, and eventually I settled on procuring a boyfriend of my own; less than 48 hours after I'd committed myself to doing so, my beloved Pat called to inform me that he was single now, "too".

After graduating from Trinity, I spent my second summer as a counselor at Knox, thinking that I'd spend my spare time looking for "real" jobs. Well, not only did I not have any spare time, I didn't want a "real" job at all. Coming home from the summer, I hit frantic mode and started applying for every single job I could possibly find. After countless hours of searching and applying, I'd come across only one that I really wanted: ladies and gentlemen, a Post Office position had opened in Olmos Park, a whole 3 blocks away from my apartment. My application for the job was clever and smart and shiny and who wouldn't want a spunky college graduate to be their mail carrier?
Evidently not the USPS, or so I thought. After at least two dozen interviews I was offered a job at the San Antonio Express-News (about which I have already complained) and in the middle of my third day there, I read a voicemail message on my lunch break asking me if I'd like to come in to the Olmos Park Post Office to see what working there was all about.

Most recently, though, I succumbed to a materialistic urge to purchase a MacBook Pro. Last night, I gathered up my courage and signed my soul away to BestBuy for an on-sale, open-box, generally-fantastic-deal MacBook Pro on which to begin my Mac foray. This morning, I was confronted with the online invitation to try the *new* MacBook Pro, starting at a cost approximately 300$ less than I literally just paid for mine. A newer Mac, a cheaper price. My stupid timing... and I'm still in over my head.

I can't figure out what any of this has taught me. Should I reconsider "living in the moment"? Or should I just tell the "moment" to go to hell?

on Obama

2009-03-07T08:21:00.000-08:00

Well, it all came together for me rather beautifully last night. I was at First Friday with David, when behold, we witnessed the most interesting of modern-art novelty items: an Obama prayer candle.

I kid you not: a screenprinting company in Southtown mass-produced some tall, skinny "Our Man of Guadalupe" prayer candles for the new God Himself. Styled like the red and blue "HOPE" campaign posters, Obama's beautiful face was printed onto these glass jars, vigil-ready.

This struck me as funny for many reasons, but two stuck out. One, that Obama has finally been elevated to God status, and two, that most of the liberals who "believe" in Obama don't even believe in the Christian God these candles were made to represent in the first place. Perhaps this makes the fact that they're prayer candles irrelevant, but I can't help but notice a hilarious hypocrisy beginning to surface here.

I suppose people have to have something to believe in. If it's not God, it might as well be someone that masses of people have elevated to fix things, to change things, to build a hope and a trust and a faith that this mass of people can believe in.

If I remember correctly, the tight-ass conservative tax payers/collectors 2000+ years ago didn't believe Jesus was the guy for the hope/change/faith job. Now, those same tight-ass conservatives are the ones who uphold Jesus for all he's worth, and all they're worth as well. If Republicans are rich and also Christian, then the Democrats aren't rich and don't believe in God. Stereotypical, judgmental, and close-minded on my part, but from what I've seen on social networking sites, favorites sites, and in diggs, reddits and stumbles, my generalization seems for the most part to ring true. Comments from Obama supporters bash comments from Bush supporters. Comments from atheists slam comments about intelligent design. Comments about change challenge comments about tradition and the list goes on. No one is right and no one is wrong, but the voices are loud: there is a clear division between those who support conservative Christianity and those who promote a liberal freedom from religion.

But enter Obama: a lowly, selfless politician preaching hope and change, a beacon of light from the Republican darkness. No longer will the poor suffer at the hands of the rich. No longer will nationality be synonymous with greed or bloodshed. No longer will we take take take--we will give give give, to those in need and those in need of a handout.

Seems only fitting that Obama has a prayer candle. If we're putting in His hands the power to hope and to change, then why the hell not toss a little homage His way? If this man can open the minds of the anti-religion, anti-fish-school, anti-God-in-general masses, then more power to him.

In my opinion, he's going to need all the prayers he can get.

on Jobs

2009-03-02T08:08:00.000-08:00

"Express-News to lay off about 15% of workforce"
Read here

Yeah, part of that 15% was me.

I don't count for much in 15%. 75 people in the newsroom were laid off; 60 from the other departments. Sure, it sucks. It sucked getting the news and it sucked packing and it sucked saying goodbye.

But I'm 22 years old. I have an amazing degree and an amazing future ahead of me. I am still able-bodied enough to be a UPS driver or a waitress and I am not yet too cynical to do anything in between.

No, I don't count for much in that 15%. But what about the guy sitting next to me, who was commuting from Austin every day without his own car? Or the lady who trained me, who is wondering if she has to find new homes for her animals because pet food is expensive? Workers with car payments, mortgages, children in diapers, children in high school, children in college? Workers caring for their parents? Workers with spouses who also lost Jobs in "this economy"?

I was sad to leave my little cubicle and 24" monitor behind, but I was even more sad to see the people who had legitimate reasons to be really sad. My boss with a brand new mortgage; my boss's boss with a family of five. As whiny as it sounds: it's not fair.

It's Monday morning at 10:18 a.m., and normally, I'd be panicking that I was way late for work. Instead, I'm enjoying my morning by drinking a cup of tea, cleaning my apartment, and clipping my cat's toenails. Later, I'm going to the store and later after that I'm having lunch with my boyfriend. Maybe I'll work on some freelance stuff, maybe I'll play Guitar Hero. And I feel way too lucky to be in the situation to do so.

As of Marc 20, 2009, there will be 75 people with amazing skills and talents in the field of journalism without a Job at which to use those skills and talents. There will be 75 people looks for the same job in the same small town. There will be stress and anxiety and resumes and interviews, and I can only pray that every single person with whom I worked will be able to stay on their feet, as strong as they were on the 3rd floor of Avenue E and Third Street.

on Parenting

2008-12-14T20:22:00.000-08:00

I am not a parent. Yet. I do like to think I know a thing or two about kids, but I'm not quite sure exactly what it would be like to be a parent...
Even so, I sometimes find myself witnessing various situations in which I can't help but question the choices of my fellow Americans and wonder how those choices affect their Parenting. Thee thoughts in my head are interjected with "How the hell would you explain that to your kids?"

For example,
today I saw a car remarkably similar to this one:

(most especially the gold grille)
A woman, perhaps mid-40s, was driving a ten-or-so year old boy in this very car. I was at a stoplight and saw them making a left turn in front of me. I noticed the grille at first, of course, but then I noticed the kid.
And all I could think of was, how does a mother explain that car to her child?
"Gold, Juan, in honor of our Aztec heritage."

Or what about the guy with the horrible tattoo (truth: this tattoo is on a man: "Fo sho, all ho'z r scandalous")?

"No, son, I was held at gunpoint and forced to get these nasty images tattooed on to me. I think the woman holding me at gunpoint was your mother, but I don't remember her name."

But what kills me are the hippie young ladies in Whole Foods.

"Honey... it's natural to have hair that smells worse than my armpits and clothes made out of the same stuff I smoke for lunch."

And then there's Halloween.

"I dressed you up as a dying alien monster penis thing so that I can not only embarrass you at your wedding but embarrass myself as a parent. It really was perfect, baby!"

I guess one day people will be asking about me, how's she going to explain that red hair to that poor kid when he's older

on Cleaning Out my Closet

2008-10-10T09:20:00.001-07:00

Upon my long-ago return from John Knox, I began a seemingly never-ending expedition through the depths of my “closet”—that is, the loads of clothes and shoes (oh, the shoes!) that had amassed themselves in 5 drawers, on 3 2-foot long closet racks, and in one very large, plastic storage container. Considering that my apartment has only one closet and therefore not nearly enough space to house this horrid collection of mine, I decided to get rid of it. ALL of it.
Half inspired by guynameddave.com (I based my chaplain lessons on this guy all summer) and half inspired by my own disgust with myself, I embarked upon a wild journey that began with a plastic drawer full of shoes. 32 pairs, yes sir, 15 that I determined I’d never wear again, 3 that I never wore, ever, in the first place, and one “pair” who was missing his second half. So I’m down to 13 pairs, which, of course, is an unlucky number, but will be remedied when my Chacos return from the Chaco hospital. (Jeanna, you’re not supposed to be adding pairs…)
Then it was on to the clothes. The fabric stuff. Without even looking at it, I put that very large, plastic storage container in the back of the ‘vette—I figured if I hadn’t opened it since I’d moved 7 months ago, I probably wasn’t going to need to open it again. So that was gone with no questions and no regrets.
I spent the next few days doing an Extreme Closet Makeover, donating all of my Youth Medium T-shirts and old guy pants. I vowed that for three straight days, every time I left my apartment, I’d take with me 6 more articles of clothing and bag them in the numerous paper bags I had stashed under the hatch. By the end of a week I’d made two packed-to-the-ceiling trips to Salvation Army; a week later, I’d made another one.
Getting rid of the too-small winter crap, “the style” that was such bad example of “the style” that it had to go and the other random garments I’d acquired over the years was easy. The hard part? Emotional attachment.
I look back now and think to myself that it sounds pretty lame to have emotional attachment on items of clothing, of all things, but it at least makes some sense. The homemade “Team E” t-shirt I got for being part of the Editorial Board my junior year; the ripped-up North Texas football shirt I'd been keeping as a reminder that I once went there; the first skirt I ever made that is now way ugly and way too small for me: they were just clothes, but at some point, they’d been a lot more than that.
As artist and actor Eminem once put it in his pleasing pop ballad, “I never meant to make you cry, but tonight, I’m cleaning out my closet.” I didn’t really cry, but I did second-guess myself as I reluctantly placed things in the To-Go pile. It took driving away and dropping that pile off for donation for me to realize that things don’t inspire memories, memories do.
After that, the rest of the cleaning was remarkably easy: Will I wear this or not? IF the answer was “not,” I gave it away, memories attached or not. It’s not about having tangible things to rattle memories, it's having the friends and family that constantly inspire me to remember what an aamzing few years I've had to make them.

on Moving

2008-10-09T15:15:00.000-07:00

About 4 years ago, I think I exasperatedly relayed to my mother the following sentiment: "I'll be living in a different country by the time a Democrat becomes President."
Shit. I'd better get moving.

on Growing Up

2008-10-06T06:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my first day of work.
Considering I've been working for about 10 years now, it didn't much feel like my first day of work. In fact, I've had a handful of other days in my life that felt more like work days than this one did: the day my thesis was due last semester; hopefully finishing the Trinitonian by 2 a.m.; hell week at Knox. No, today didn't feel anything at all like work, because I sat and watched an orientation power point, I sat and watched my new co-worker Molly do layout, and I sat and looked at the clock wondering if every day would be this long. I didn't work, I sat. (Aside: who still uses power point? And for that matter, who still uses flying in text and bullets on power point? Ugh...)
But all that not considered, today was the day I suppose I entered the "real world" by simultaneously entering the income-taxed, health-insured work force.
And it made me instantly miss freelancing. (Freelancing, v: sitting on the couch with a laptop watching HBO re-runs and eating popcorn whenever I feel like it)
It also made me instantly miss college, and the drive to produce my best work at all times. It made me miss the community, the family I acquired, and the bonds we had.
But most of all, it made me miss the times I was able to make fun of myself for one day Growing Up. I'm not a Grown Up, and I don't plan on being any time soon. I'm a kid who wants to make newspapers and still sleeps with a stuffed pig.

on Police Cars

2008-09-13T10:08:00.001-07:00

I said this to Liz the other night: "But it's just not fair. I want to be able to break the law whenever I can, and know that there's not some secret cop waiting there to catch me."
You've seen 'em, especially if you're around the Alamo Heights area, anywhere on 281, or you've been to Austin (who knows where else they've infiltrated): the Police Cars that could easily not be Police Cars except for the 5% lighter lettering that reads "POLICE" on the side. I think I might speak for a few people when I say that this pisses me off.
You see, I have recently acquired the use of a beautiful, red, 04 Corvette that begs to be driven over 90 mph... it's so hard not to do. Give me 281 at 6 am or midnight and I'll show you what 120 mph feels like; 306 to Wimberley and I'll show you 135, but don't tell my mom. And why not, you know? The Department of Transportation has blessed us with 8-lane, smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom highways that are virtually empty at certain times of the day, and we're supposed to not go fast? Really?
Really. Just when I've hit 92 mph I have to slam on the brakes because I've come up behind a black Dodge Charger or a silver Chevy Impala or even a beige Tahoe. Normal cars, right? There's no light bar on top, no spotlights danging off the sides, no "Police" written across the top of the trunk... so why am I slowing down? Unfortunately, these vehicles are Police Cars, and I've come to notice them only with my keen eye for "exempt" license plates.
I call them "5% Cars," because they have 5% paint on the outside and 5% police on the inside. Instead of screaming "Look at me, slow the hell down, and respect my authoritah" like the light bars and the blue & yellow paint do on the "Real" Police Cars, the 5% Cars whisper "Hey, don't look at me, because I don't have enough guts to announce that I'm a police officer, and I have to trap you with my ridiculous ride." I will slow down for you, O Police Car with Light Bar and Flashy Paint Job. But the minute I get pulled over by one of these 5% Cars I will be furious.
It's the principal that's just, well, different. Thus the makings of the quote that began this whole ordeal: I feel like I should be able to break the law when there's not a Police Car to be seen, and cease the law-breaking when there is. It's not entrapment, because they drive around in the plain of day. It's not undercover, because with perfect vision one might be able to differentiate between the 100% black paint of the car and the 95% grey paint of "Police" sprawled across the side. It's clever, it's sneaky, but most importantly, it's keeping me and others like me from being comfortable with driving fast.
I never know, now, do I? These stupid cars have instilled a fear in me that I can't seem to shake. I just can't help but wonder, as I round the corner of 281 at San Pedro at a smooth 87 mph, if they guy on my left that I'm sailing by is really an officer of the law in his blue Ford Focus, or if the gal on my right in her black Dodge Calibur is really out to get some unsuspecting dupe weaving through traffic downtown.
Let's just hope that the next 5% that tries to pull me over is an SUV, so I can outrun his undercover ass.

on City Lights

2008-08-29T07:29:00.000-07:00

Last night Joe and I were driving down 281 through the new 410 interchange, and Joe said, "It's cool that they built that overpass, it looks like we live in an actual city now." Which got me thinking: we live in a city?
It's not that I don't love the traffic and the strip malls, but San Antonio doesn't really feel like a city to me anymore. Maybe it's because I'm going on my fifth year of living here--I feel like it's not just a city, it's where I live. It's the place that I sometimes call home. It's familiar, and it's routine. I suppose this happens to anyone who moves anywhere. I'm not special, I'm just saying.
So, in noticing these highway-brand City Lights, a phenomenon twinkled through my sights. It's happened to me quite a few times before, and I'm guessing that it will keep happening as long as I keep traveling. It's like this: I'm staring out the window of the 14th row of seats on yet another Greyhound bus, and I'm mesmerized. The Lights are just so, well, bright. They have that photo-lens twinkle that makes them shine in pointed rays. Even the lights on the Shell stations seem more friendly, more inviting. Red and blue and green and yellow lights entice me to visit downtown; white lights illuminate businesses and gas stations and strip malls that are almost invisible behind their bright and beautiful counterparts. Every single bulb in every single socket on every single fantastically-lit block of this city must have been freshly changed in anticipation of my arrival, and they're telling me I'm now passing through the best city ever.
...But Jeanna, you're in Tulsa.
It seems like no matter where I travel through, the Lights are always brighter. Shinier. More City-like. They're City Lights, and they guide me through this big strange place, beckoning me to come explore.
Of course, leaving the city, I watch the plethora of lights diminish down to the solitary lampposts overseeing the exit-off-the-interstate signs. And the next City's Lights do the exact same thing.

on Going Home

2008-08-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

While sitting at the stop light in La Grange on Saturday (yes, the stop light, and the only one of four that counts because you can actually sit at it), I realized that I had absolutely no reason to be there any more. See, Going Home for me has always meant at least one stop in La Grange to partake in certain childhood comforts the small town once provided me. 4 comforts, in fact: Chicken tenders from Golden Chick; Wonton soup from the Chinese place (for some reason, it's unlike any other); a mocha from Latte on the Square; a bean and egg breakfast taco from the Taco Shack.
Now, at this stop light, I wondered, "Left for a taco? Right for the soup? Straight for the chicken? Or U-turn for the mocha?" when it hit me: none of these things are any comfort at all to me any more.
Yep. Being a vegetarian eliminates the chicken and the soup, and I vaguely remembered from the last time I was on a Going Home journey that Latte had changed its brand of mocha syrup, replacing it with a bitter and far less delicious one. That leaves the bean and egg taco, but because I now call San Antonio the place that I live, and have an award-winning Mexican restraunt less than 100 yards from me, I can get a bean and egg taco any time I'd like.
So there I was, at this stop light, making the decision to turn left not for the taco, but because that was the quickest way to Go Home. It seems that now, the only things I really need from Going Home are the things I find there--a front porch, my family, and a really comfortable bed.

on Last Days

2008-08-24T15:09:00.001-07:00

It took me having a quite unremarkable Last Day to realize how often Last Days happen, and how often they're, well, unremarkable. Wednesday was my Last Day of summer at John Knox Ranch, marking the end of twelve and a half weeks spent on those 300 some-odd acres. 250 meals, 13,000 stairs, countless friends and memories and inside jokes, all to eventually be left in a big envelope labeled "Summer 2008".
Before last Wednesday, though, I had 2 other Last Days. There was the Last Day of summer camp--no more "Knox kids"--and there was the Last Day of camp camp--Braveheart came and went. But both of those Last Days didn't much come as Last Days to me because I knew I'd be back the next day or the next. And now I'm sitting here contemplating whether or not I should go back tomorrow, just to finish up some things I was working on. The fact that I have a choice as to whether or not I want to go back has made me realize that I have actually had my Last Day.
My Last Day passed without my best summer friend being there, without me saying goodbye to everyone I needed to, and without the sun to blind me as I drove home: it was just another year-round day at the ranch. Up until that point, I had thought that I'd have one more day to say goodbye to everyone and everything; I hadn't realized that everyone and everything had already said goodbye before me. Their Last Days had come already, while I blindly kept plugging through towards mine. I didn't even celebrate, really, except for an extra gin-and-tonic and sleeping an hour later the next morning.
A wise English co-worker told me, a couple of weeks before his Last Day, "But then, Jeanna, summer will be over, and you'll have to go back to where you were before your life here." I had shrugged him off: certainly, I couldn't just have a Last Day and then have it all disappear.
He was right--somehow, he always is. My Last Day became something to look back on, rather than something to look forward to. My Last Day became something to attach a label to, to learn from. My Last Day became a First Day and because of that, nothing really changed. There were no warnings, no Wet Floor signs, no bright orange notices on the front door. Only a landlord wondering where the rent was and friendships turning from best to too busy. Evidently, we all have our LastDay/FirstDay realities.
Tomorrow will be my Last Day of summer, I think. And hopefully some day soon, I'll have a Last Day of brief unemployment. They'll be Firsts, too, but I'm starting to think I've learned more from the Lasts than anything else: no matter how un-memorable, a Last Day means something memorable enough must have happened to make that Last Day matter.