pug thoughts.

There's nothing sadder than having to look your obese pug in her bulging brown eyes and say, "No. I'm sorry, you can't have any more ice cream." It breaks my heart that I can't feed her hot dogs and buttered rolls and fried chicken skin. Pooky loves food as much as me, and I wish we could share that experience more.

I'm starting to freak out about leaving her with my parents when I move to Portland next week. I know Pooky would love the weather; half the time I can't walk her in Texas because it's too dang hot and she starts overheating and there is nothing worse than a panting pug in the middle of July. But moving a dog 2300 miles is no small matter. And she's used to having people around all day, none of this 9 to 5 business, because no one in my family has a real job. I'm worried she'll forget about me, and I'm worried she'll miss me. I wish I could just roll up her fatty self like a sleeping bag and stuff her in my carry-on. Having Pooky in Portland would be like having a fat, furry roll of Home.

bus rides.

There's something about riding the bus in the early morning that makes me introspective and wistful and nostalgic. Listening to Sun Kil Moon (the guy from Red House Painters) only makes matters worse. There was a guy on the bus today who looked exactly like Jeff Tweedy from Wilco. Now, never in my life have I found Jeff Tweedy attractive, but his doppelgänger was really growing on me. I think meeting someone on the bus would be kind of cute. As long as they're not homeless. Not that I'm discriminating! My friend met her former boyfriend on a plane ride to Portland. Granted, they broke up after a couple years, but it doesn't get any more romantical than randomly sitting next to someone on a plane and five hours later...kabloom! When I fly, I always end up sitting next to young moms with drooling, sticky-faced babies or alcoholic, red-faced business men getting back from "golf trips."

tender mercies

I never thought I'd say this, but, I find Robert Duvall attractive...only in this movie, of course. Tender Mercies was such a sweet, genuine, pure, raw film. Robert Duvall actually has a beautiful singing voice, and it made me want to be an alcoholic country singer in Waxahachie, Texas. I know I'm going to miss Texas when I move to Portland next week. It's the kind of thing you miss the most when you're far away. But Texas will live on in my heart, and my stomach, and I'll just eat a lot of chicken fried steak. Thank goodness I don't like Tex-Mex food.

What it feels like to own a pug.

I never planned on becoming one of those obsessed, slightly senile pug owners. You know the kind. They’re always covered in dog hair, dress their pooches in rain coats, and try to slip mentions of their darling pug into every conversation. Their median age hovers at around 75.

My pug ownership came about quite unexpectedly. I was fifteen years old and my brother had just left for college. I decided to use his absence as excellent reasoning for me to acquire a new friend—particularly, a new furry friend.

I coaxed and wheedled my parents for over a month; finally, their spirits were broken and they gave in. One summer afternoon, during an “antiques trip” to San Antonio, we randomly stopped at a pink stucco house on the way down. It turned out to be the happy home of a backyard breeder and her roly-poly pug puppies. I chose the runt, thinking she’d turn out petite. But it turned out to be a mistake. A very big mistake. Pookins Eloise (who answers only to Pooky) now weighs a whopping 32 pounds at the ripe old age of seven. She’s a barrel on toothpick legs, and moves as gracefully as that description sounds.

Including a pug in one’s life is no light matter (no pun intended), and should be taken very seriously. One can’t just leave their house for twelve hours and hope the pug is still content when you get back. My parents have an abject horror of leaving our pugs alone for more than five hours at a time. Pugs? As in plural? Ah yes, a second pug was acquired when Pooky was three. Our household had come to a mutual agreement that Pooky was lonely during the day and needed a playmate. Through Pug Rescue (a private animal shelter just for pugs) we found an older lady pug looking for a new home. It was a match made in heaven. Except for the small fact that Pooky and Macey (new/old pug) detested each other. After a few catfights in the beginning, the pugs agreed to mutually hate each other from afar.

Going out with a pug is an event in itself. People point, laugh, gawk, and generally make the pug either self-conscious or vain. I don’t dress my pugs in costumes, mostly because they don’t make pug jumpers in XXL. But I do take them to “pug play dates” in Bull Creek Park, which occur the first Saturday of every month. It’s a day of costumes, kiddie pools, and liver treats for the old and young alike. All pugs are welcome, even the mixed breeds and wheelchair-bound. During the pug parade this summer, upon spotting a pug in a luau costume (complete with coconut bra), I realized there’s only one breed of dog—and one kind of person—crazy enough to do this.

currently reading: Boomsday by Christopher Buckley. It's making me angry/fearful of when all the Baby Boomers retire and we young folks have to shoulder their Social Security golf-playing days. Oh god, the terror. The terror!

afternoon delight.

My grammy in DeSoto, TX called to inform me of a new Bluebell flavor called Southern Hospitality. Judging by the name alone, I knew it was going to be awesome. And it is. I'm going to quote from Bluebell's website now:

"Southern Hospitality will be produced by Blue Bell exactly as it was proposed by Hegley- a mixture of Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream with crushed pineapples, roasted pecans and a strawberry sauce swirl. It will be manufactured in half gallons by Blue Bell later this year or in early 2008.
Hegley was inspired by South Carolina’s tradition of displaying the pineapple as a symbol of hospitality, welcome, friendliness, conviviality and warmth. She says in her contest entry, “The Pineapple Fountain, a huge, tiered pineapple shaped fountain, is the centerpiece at Waterfront Park in Charleston. It is a welcoming symbol of hospitality to those visiting our charming city.”

No wonder I like it so much. I love the South. I love ice cream. I love not fitting into my pants!

my dream job.

First off, I don't want to work really hard. I want to sleep until 9, have a nice breakfast, go for leisurely run, long shower, get my hair and makeup did. Then I'll be ready for work. And I'd like to leave by 4. So, basically I'd like to work 11-4. And not on Fridays. I'm not asking for the world here, people. Just a European work ethic. Ahem. Here is my dream job: finding things to make ironic and cool again from the past. I will be paid to convince hipsters that certain things are cool again, and that they should pay three times the price for it. For example, my first task would be to bring back Zima. Zima is a clear malt liquor that frat boys used in part with their date rape drugs on unwitting sorority girls named Chelsea. I remember drinking it in tenth grade, and knowing with the first sip that I was going to feel like crappy shit the next day. This job does exist. I know it. I mean, someone brought back PBR. It didn't just magically reappear again and cost $3.75 at some stupid Brooklyn bar, did it? What else will I bring back?

1. Macramé art. This can be owls, fruit holders, Koozies. The tackier the better.
2. Dreamweavers
3. SAS shoes--"America's Favorite Comfort Shoes". I'm thinking the flesh-colored old lady ones from the 70s.
4. The Dorothy Hamill wedge cut. I've seen this style a couple times, but it's ready for a full-on comeback. It's the new Rachel!
5. Parachute pants
6. Grapenuts (Did they ever go away? Doesn't matter, it's now the cereal)
7. Hootie and the Blowfish
8. Ford Pinto (adds an element of danger)
9. Those clear plastic hair bows with candy in them. I wore them a lot in 1990-1993
10. The acid-washed, wilderness animal T-shirts

Let's get this ironic party started.

E! True Hollywood story.

I could have had a mail-order husband.

Last summer I was waiting to meet my friend at the entrance to Heathrow airport from the Piccadilly line. We’d gotten separated during our lengthy trip on the tube, and seeing as how we were flying across the ocean together, I figured I’d better find her.

I had four bags of luggage with me weighing a collective three hundred pounds on each shoulder. It was the last leg of our month-long sojourn in London, and I was ready to go home. I decided to pull a homeless and sit on my luggage at the bottom of the stairs. People of all nations whirled around me, and I craned my neck to keep a constant watch on those getting off the tube. I had sat there about fifteen minutes when I noticed a Pakistani woman in a beautiful lime-green sari watching me.

Giving her my best polite American smile, I turned away. I’d noticed that people across the pond were not into smiling as much as they were back home. “Texas friendly” often came across as a little…too friendly. When I looked back at her again, she was still staring. With this renewed eye contact, she walked over to me.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” I smiled back.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yeah, my friend and I got lost and I’m hoping to spot her getting off the tube.”

“Oh, yes. Are you traveling in London?”

I told her I had been studying abroad but was flying back today. She was very
interested in what school I went to and what I was studying. She herself was waiting for her daughter to get off work, who apparently worked for Lufthansa Airlines inside Heathrow.
We had been having a nice little chat when she declared, “I want you to meet my daughter! Yes, youshould meet my daughter Heena!”

“Um, well, I should probably wait for my friend. I don’t want to miss her.”

“Oh, but you must! Come, come! It will take no time at all.”

It must have been the lack of sleep that made me agree. It had been an odd past couple of days and I decided to keep the pattern going.

“Okay, I’ll come meet Heena.”

She helped with my bags and we trudged for what seemed like two miles to the Lufthansa counter inside. A young woman with startlingly blue eyes bounded out and came to greet us.

“Heena, this is Lindsey. She is a student from the United States.”

“Hi, Lindsey! So nice to meet you. You are traveling in London? Studying what? Are you married?”

“Um, no, I’m still a student and—“

“You must meet my brother! He is very handsome and is studying medical school in Pakistan right now. He is almost done, and will be moving back to London soon.”

“Oh, really? That’s cool…how-how old is he?”

“He is 23, and very handsome. You must meet him! Are you coming back to London soon?”

“Oh, I’d love to, but it’s very expensive and—“

“You must come! We have a very big house here and you can stay with us and meet my brother.”

“Really? Well, that would be nice. ..”

“Are you staying here for awhile?”

“No, I’m actually catching a flight in about four hours.” “

“Oh, no! That is too bad! Let me get your email and phone number.”

I couldn’t very well say no. I do like emails from strangers, and if she wanted to pay for expensive international phone calls, then so be it. If she rang, I could always not pick up. Besides, I really did want to visit London again. She handed me a piece of paper, and I looked around for a hard surface to write on. The mother bent over and said, “Here! On my back!”

I did so, but not without a strange feeling of trepidation.

After some hugs and promises to email, I shouldered my luggage and trudged back to my original destination. I doubted I would ever hear from them again. Perhaps they thought I was a diplomat’s daughter with connections and wealth. If so, they were very much mistaken.

Upon checking my email eighteen hours later back in the States, I was surprised to see Heena had already emailed me. She had a unique way of typing. It was shorthand like text messages, but with misspellings that made no sense—at least to me.

Hi Linsey, how r u? Its Hina do u remember me we at the Airport. u met my mum ans she brought u to my work place Lufthansa. i was trying to find out if u have reached in US. hopefully u must have had a nice journey.
i have tried to call u but the number was not going through so can u please possiblly ring me on (0044) 07908488861 by the we are from london.
take care x
thanx
Hina

I found it extremely odd that her email was “honey_jus4u.” It seemed a little jailbait-y and something that would show up in your spam blocker. She also spelled her name differently. Sometimes with an “I” and sometimes with two “E”s. I did write her back, telling her of my uneventful trip home and how hot it was back in Texas. Two days later, she wrote me back.

how r u Lindsey, hope ur okay? i have been trying to ring u but it doesnt get through and it keeps ringing. i just wanted to find out did u get the text message from my brother because he didnt get any reply. anyways hows ur family. can u please do us a big favour can u email me a picture of yours.
i will send u my brothers as well just need to get them scanned. i hope u will send me ur picture soon. can u also tell me when i can ring u as well.
Thank u tk cr
Hina

I couldn’t understand why she wanted a picture of me. I suppose it was to show her brother, and see if he found me a suitable wife. I was starting to realize they weren’t just showing me English hospitality at the airport. They were ready to incorporate me into the family. But they were keeping it on the down-low. I wanted her to just come right out and say, “Please marry my brother so he can have U.S. citizenship.” For now, Heena was still playing the sly matchmaker. Just a bit of harmless fun, I told myself.

Then the phone calls began. The first time, I picked up. I have a pesky habit of being too curious. Heena was on the phone, but it was a bad connection and we had trouble hearing each other.

“Lindsey! We need…picture! To show my brother, yes?”

And: “When are you coming back to London? You need to stay with us! When is your next holiday?”

I could hear her mother hollering in the background at things to say to me. She sounded very excited. So excited that Heena put her on the phone with me. She jabbered away earnestly, but I honestly couldn’t understand one word she was saying—it was a mix of broken English and Urdu.

Finally, I shouted, “Heena! I have to go! I have work now. Bye!”

She called me back two days later. I picked up.

“Lindsey! We are going to Pakistan in November to visit my brother! You must come! Will you come? We will buy your ticket.”

I have to admit, it was pretty tempting. I didn’t want to turn down a free ticket around the world. Then again, I didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage. I told her I would need a chaperone, and that I would have to think about it.

She continued to call me incessantly throughout the month but I didn’t have the heart to pick up. It was too difficult to communicate, and I didn’t want to lead her family on. It was like a very persistent first date that just wouldn’t let go. But the stakes were much higher. We were talking green cards here.

The calls petered out after awhile. The messages were shrill and high-pitched, with the mother often yelling in the background. I wish I had saved them. Heena did write me one last email two months after our initial meeting.

Hi Lindsey,
am fine thanx..how r u? dont be sorry i can undstand. i will tell my brother to email u. Lindsey would it be possible for u to email me ur picture please its just that my sisters are really very excited and they are dying to c u. and please do let me know when have a day off or when ur free to chat online. and also when r u getting holidays? the Weather in London is cool not too hot its sunny but cool. If its really hot their come and stay with us in London (lol)
tk cr and plase let me know how soon u can come online and please do email me a picture of urz.
bye heena x

I’m still not exactly sure what Heena and her family wanted from me. To marry the brother? To bring him to the United States? Or was I to go there? Perhaps they thought I was a wealthy American who had a hankering for international love. I’ll never know. But if I ever fly into Heathrow again, I might be tempted to stop by the Lufthansa counter and see if my once potential sister-in-law is still there.

Coach Wolf

I had a Coach Wolf in ninth grade. For the duration of six months, I convinced myself I was athletic and was going to run track. Training began in August. In Texas. At noon. On a black track. I distinctly remember looking off into the distance and seeing a mirage. The buildings would shimmer and shake in the heat. My face was beet red for two hours after practice. I quit after December. So I'm a quitter. I also wasn't comfortable showering in front of other girls.

Anyway. So Coach Wolf was this intimidating, 6'1'' lady with huge, strapping legs and a blonde wedge cut. She would casually drop the word "boyfriend" around us, but it didn't fool me. Where am I going with this? Well, the woman who played Coach Wolf on Strangers with Candy just published her memoir Dark at the Roots. She was one of my favorite SWC characters. Well, hell, they all are. But my favorite memory is of her kneeling over a high school girl in gym class yelling, "And thrust it...thrust it...thrust it...okay, I'm done."

To all the Coach Wolf's in the world...I salute you.

slam poetry I will not slam.

I wrote and "performed" this my last semester in college. After I was finished, I felt like a monster. No one laughed. No one smiled. My fellow classmates looked at me like I was pure evil. Like I was Sharon Stone bombing at a really bad joke. Who wants to admit they don't really like kids? I learned a very important lesson that day: Always Lie and Say You Like Kids When in Mixed Company.

Here it is now, unedited. Raw. Real. Real-er than The Real World. Wow. Emotionally devastating. Guaranteed to rip your soul apart and make you think really, really hard. Okay. I'm done.

When I was in seventh grade, my English teacher told us to make a list of what we hoped to accomplish in life by the time we were fifty.

Mine included writing the great American novel, owning an English cottage, retiring at the age of forty…and learning to like kids.

Things haven’t really changed since the tender age of thirteen, except for that last goal…

That was a dream I had to let die.

Throughout the years, I’ve learned that announcing I don’t particularly like children and they don’t like me is not exactly a crowd-pleaser. In high school, I’d casually mentioned this fact to my boss (mother of three) and she looked at me like I’d just said I like to cut the heads off of feral cats and deep fry them for dinner. She then exclaimed, “What could you possibly have against CHILDREN? They are the sweetest, most precious, most innocent little things in the world!”

My point exactly.

She didn’t make eye contact with me the rest of the time I worked there.

I decided to keep my dislike of children a secret since then. But it’s hard work pretending that I can tolerate them. Family reunions of any kind are the worst. The little runts are everywhere, like a swarm of pesky pigeons in a park--except you can’t fend them off with bread crumbs. I once had one crawl on my leg and it was everything I could do not to scream and shake it off.

What makes this particular trait of mine so offensive to people is that I’m female. And biologically speaking, I’m in the peak of my child-bearing years. So shouldn’t I be gravitating towards babies like a fat man at a buffet line?

Apparently not. It leads me to believe that that ever-elusive trait, the maternal instinct, skipped a generation. Or at least, went off the beaten path.

Because I do want to have a houseful of children. They just happen to be the furry, four-legged kind. Maybe if my mom had had a little brother when I was eight instead of buying me a dog, things would be different. But I’ll never know.

I worry most about what will happen when my friends get married and start overpopulating the world. Will our friendship dissolve? Can they be friends with someone who looks at their spawn the same way I look at cockroaches?

Heaven forbid they ask me to be the godmother.

Of course, my friends all know I don’t particularly like children. But they laugh it off and say, “Some day you’ll change your mind.”

Maybe. But I highly doubt it.

People can go their whole life despising cats and no one expects them to have a life-changing experience and adopt six cats from the pound. But supposedly one day, when I’m 35 and running out of eggs, I’m going to wake up and say, “Time to get pregnant!”

I wish everyone would realize what a relief it is for people like me not to want children. In a sense, I’m actually saving the world. The earth is only so big, and at the rate we’re going, we’ll run out of room or fossil fuels—whichever comes first. So my supposed heartlessness is actually reducing my carbon footprint. People should be thanking me. I’m making the world a better place for their descendants.

Of course, along the way I have met some tolerable children. They were quiet, well-read, and for the most part, didn’t pick their nose in front of me. So I know there’s hope. I might not ever be Mary Poppins, but at least I’ll be a step above Cruella de Vil.

1990's reading

My trip to the library today turned into nostalgia for a time when I was wearing frilly socks, white Keds, and un-ironic ponytails. Yes, the early 1990s. Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield and sTORI TELLING by...you know who. I mean, you can only read so much about this totally awesome girl who was like, really into Pavement and had such a free spirit and made her own clothes. Sometimes you need to know about the pug Mimi LaRue's clothing boutique on Rodeo Drive. But I feel guilty saying anything smarmy about Sheffield's book because his wife dies in the end. So I'm just gonna be quiet now and think about what I want for dinner: BBQ ribs, potato salad, beans, and fried apple pie in a skillet with vanilla bean ice cream!

shuffleboard

Why is it old men feel it's their business to interrupt young ladies when they are in a bar playing some kind of game? I'm not going for the helpless, look at me I'm so silly I can't hold this pool cue thang. I'm playing shuffleboard. Yeah, I suck. So what? I'm pushing a puck thing down a board of silicone beads. Obviously, I'm pushing it too hard or not hard enough. But I'm drinking a Miller High Life and not too worried about it. Life isn't always about winning. And yet here comes Mr. Baseball Hat Sweaty Head to tell me I'm doing it all wrong. What does he hope to accomplish from this exchange? Me throwing my arms around him, proclaiming him the Shuffleboard King, and getting into his Ford pickup for a trip around the block? Well, yeah. And I totally did. He was a nice guy. I think his name was Willis.

addiction.

Oh, god. Just what I need. Another stupid posting Internet rant/rave thingy to keep me inside sitting on my fat ass all day. The thingy is yelp.com. Yes, I'm behind the times. It's addictive. I love talking about food and restaurants and hair salons and bitchy boutiques. Now I can do it all day long. And I can have friends and feel popular and loved as I eat a whole wheel of baked brie with apricot preserves.

Recent reviews by Lindsey R.

What's this?

Black Sun.

"You're nervous," he said.
She nodded. "Yes. I'm scared."
"So am I."
"I never spent a night with a man before."
"I know. And I never spent a night with you before. That makes us even." He smiled at her and squeezed her shoulder. "The way to do it," he said, "the only easy way, we'll have to get just a little bit drunk. First. Okay?"
"Okay."
"So drink up."

--excerpt from Black Sun, by Edward Abbey
I enjoyed this book, in a depressing way. It's a love story about nature and a young woman and escape from all the bullshit. I always have these fantasies about living in a cabin with no human contact for six months, talking only to deer and squirrels. I'm curious to see how insane I would go. But I would read so many books! And possibly start and finish my screenplay. This is a fantastic idea. I need to make this happen. But I'm too much of a coward. Phooey.

greasy Italian men.

While watching Raging Bull last night, I found myself inexplicably attracted to Robert DeNiro. Well, before he got his face permanently ruined and bloated by punches and booze. But I've just never thought of those guys as my type. They're loud and crude and wear wife beaters and beat their wives. Obviously, that last part is a turn-off. Actually, I can't find any redeeming qualities to say about men like that. We both like big lunches and red wine and raise our voices when we're angry? I guess it's my inner WASP coming out and me wanting to mix up my Scottish-German heritage with Catholic Italians in a big melting pot. I hope this is a phase as there are not too many boxers from the Bronx roaming around Central Texas.

a sudden realization.

There is no finer smell than the freshly baked odor of cinnamon buns, coming from that delightful health-food chain Cinnabon. Whether you're in a mall, airport, or the middle of the desert dying of thirst...Cinnabon is there to reinvigorate you! I was in the Vegas airport yesterday enjoying the aroma and heedlessly sticking crumpled dollar bills into slot machines and munching Sbarro pizza when I thought to myself: "Yes. God bless America indeed."