THIS IS ABOUT ME & MY MEMOTIONS

So, sizing in womens' garments is a constant joke, pretty much, and it doesn't really matter anyway because skirts and dresses can fit in different places, based on hip circumference and something like torso length or whatever. But my point is, pants don't lie. You can't fuck around with pants. Pants will straight-up just tell you that your thighs are too big, which is something a skirt would never say. Or it would whisper. But I've carried this metaphor far beyond its most profitable point. Which is to say that I bought some pants yesterday, and because I'm a real pessimist about these things, I started trying on size 16, even though all of my size 16 whatevers fall off me. Cool. I try on size 14, which also falls off. So yeah, it's size 12 for me. I'm sure in Hollywood and other jacked up places this makes me "plus sized," but for me personally, it means awesome things. I am now smaller than the average American woman. It also means that I lost eight dress sizes in about a year. Eight dress sizes, in case you're curious, is the size of a completely normal person like America Ferrara or similar.

Perhaps you wonder why I'm even bringing it up. And the thing is that sometimes, without tangible evidence, I don't really believe that I've made a significant change. I'll chalk this up to whatever societal fuckitude deserves the blame. But it's good to check in occasionally with the empirical evidence, which tells me that I look massively different this time around, and which tells me that my continued efforts will be rewarded. Even if my continued efforts are a little batshit crazy and not reliant upon calorie-counting or carb restricting or any of that nonsense, or anything, really, except not drinking beer and eating cheeseburgers.

Lean Pockets are still cool, though.

SNUFF THE LEADER WITH THE BAD-ASSED PLAN

It's been so long, blog. I don't know what to say. Sometimes I don't know how I feel about technology horning in on my life, or to be more accurate, I know that I don't like it but I don't know if I'm being a baby about it by lamenting. I really don't feel like being a luddite, all "Oh, all this technology is harshing my cool times." Because that just isn't me. But there's something about that endless self-documentation thing that doesn't strike me as wonderful or worthwhile the way it used to. Although, to judge from this opening, it would seem that I'm just as fond of navel-gazing as ever.

Blogs have become this semi-professionalized platforms for poets, places where they can hock their books and write about their daily struggles with lit mags and cities and what the fuck ever. But they also post their immensely erudite musings (and if you know me you know that I use this word with trepidation, even fear, because it is one of my LEAST favorite words, beaten out only by "funky") and sell a version of themselves as relentless talents. And my little offering could hardly be less professional, in fact usually it's all "hey! I just saw the craziest thing walking around today! Get hustle! Yeah!" and that, believe it or not, does not sell the books. Not like I have a book to sell or anything, just supposing.

Here's a brief summer update: I learned how to ride a bike, finally! I can really ride it around and shit! I rode it to the coffee shop just tonight, with the pretense of my friends walking along to make me feel more secure. I say "pretense" because I zoomed right by them and got to the coffee shop in no time, like a total hoss. But it was comforting to have them there because hey, that way if I crash into a car I won't be left to rot in the ditch, covered in ants. Thanks, friends.

Also, I managed to wait tables in a diner for about two weeks. Sometimes I feel secure in my decision to quit, and sometimes I feel like a quitter. I hate to say it, but maybe I'm too sensitive to wait tables. I mean, I take things too personally, not like I'm this shivering little daisy. But I did cry all the time. God, I was the waitress who cried all the time. By "all the time" I mean twice, but twice may as well be all the time considering it was only two weeks. Also I didn't get into the fancy writing conference I wanted to go to, I didn't get any good writing news, and I found some cockroaches in my apartment. And I had to have one of my ears irrigated. Thrilling shit, I know. Summer can be tricky.

Then again, I am totally glossing over the fact that I've gotten over one of my greatest challenges, and I'm talking life-long here. The bike thing is weird because I feel like everybody makes too big a deal of it or not enough of a deal at all. Some people are all, "Oh, you learned how to ride a bike? You didn't know before?" No, dumbass, that's why I had to learn. That's the whole point of learning, to do something you couldn't do before. Which, let's be honest, is just my fancy sensitivity again.

But tonight, riding on the dark streets of my neighborhood, I totally get every bike-obsessed thing I've ever read in zines. I understand every dreamy-eyed 20-something blissing out in the summertime. I remember so many times putting "learn how to ride a fucking bike" on my summer to-do list. And now it's here, and it's just the facts.

BABY BOOM IN BOURGELANDIA

A conversation overheard at the cafe I frequent: one new mom holds her son on her lap and bitches about how, post-pregnancy, she can't wear any of her great skinny clothes anymore. "I've never been fat before," she says. "I guess I never appreciated being skinny." Please note that this woman is not fat. She probably has a pretty healthy BMI, certainly nothing over the limit. I mean, I'm fat. She always compliments me on how "flattering" my clothes are, how much they camoflage my stomach. Which makes me kind of hate her. I mean, why would you say that to somebody else? Maybe I'm a little sensitive (maybe I'm always a little sensitive, yes) because I've recently been giving the working out thing another go. Anyway, this woman is also an interrupter, and if you know me at all, you probably know how much I loathe interruptors. (I'm sure she's a perfectly nice person, but I don't write entries in my blog about how everybody must be nice people deep deep inside. Because that would be boring.)

Anyway, here's the chestnut: a man and woman walking out of the restaurant next door walk by and start some baby chat. All of these people are well-heeled and everything, the kind of parents who have the energy and resources to raise their bilingual children and shop at heinously expensive baby stores, and they have the baby name discussion. And their babies' names? Mossimo and Achilles. I mean, ACHILLES???? Of the tendon? Imagine being a kindergarten teacher calling roll at a fancy private school: "Mossimo? Achilles? Datsun? Georgic? Asiago? Euripides? Sappho? Evangelist? Darlington? Lysander? Porphyry? Dada? Good, we're all here."

If I had to guess what percentage of the crankiness in this entry is inspired by the bourge parents and which by my dismay that I must, must, must finish a story for Monday, I would guess it's 30/70. In case you were curious.

P.S. RIP Kurt Vonnegut.

THE FEMALE BODY IS A THOUSAND YEAR OLD FREAK SHOW OF DRIED OUT MERMAIDS

I'm probably misquoting, but the title is a line from a Lara Glenum poem found in her book, "The Hounds of No." It will gross you out, make you queasy around breakfast foods, and amaze you with some badass weird syntax. This is my first endorsement for National Poetry Month, which begins today.

Poetry month always makes me want to do something crazy with poetry. Moreso than usual, I should say, because crazy poetry ideas are pretty much standard with me. I miss having projects that exhaust me, trying to write things I don't know how to write yet, listening to them develop through drafts. The long poem on the watusi was the last attempt, but I think it's finished (for now) and in any case, I figured it out, kind of. (Funny, I remember bitching about not being able to do what I wanted to do in poems not too long ago, and as soon as I've discovered a new mine of ideas, I want more difficulty. Who's surprised?) Okay, no really, I have been pretty happy with the poems lately. But I always want more growth. Which, I guess, is what it's all about. (And putting your whole self in, taking your whole self out, and shaking it. All about, baby.)

ALL THAT DETH JAZZ

I had a great little moment with Catullus yesterday. Say what you will about "contemporary" translations of the classics, but there's something great about making those old Latins just as body- and fart-humor obsessed as the rest of us. Did you know that Catullus has this dis poem about an accquainance who (and I'm paraphrasing here) only shits ten times a year? And his shits are like tiny pearls that wouldn't even dirty your fingers if you rolled them in your hands. Or something. Maybe it takes some potty jokes to get me to read the classics. And if that's true, look out, Joyce, you are next on the list.

I am getting heavy bored of hearing how everything in poetry relates to T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. Poetry grad school can fatigue you in those ways, I guess, but I don't get tired of metrics. A few months ago, taking the bus home from workshop, I noticed that every business name on Guadalupe St. is either trochaic or dactylic: Slices & Ices, Hole in the Wall, etc. Which I excitedly shared with my nerd friends, prompting an exciting conversation about the linkage between commerce and accentual syllabics. (This probably has something to do with T.S. and Ezra, but believe me I do NOT want to hear it.)

I can't decide if I'm too myopically into poetry or if I need to focus focus focus more. On the one hand, I feel like I need to read everything ever, and just think harder in general, but sometimes I look around at my friends who all have other things going on in their lives and I get jealous.

SPRINGTIME IN TEXAS

Maybe it isn't going to last, but today it was 68 degrees and sunny, so I sat outside a cafe while literally all of my clothes tumbled in the next-door laundromat. And I'm wearing a dress and sandals--no need for tights or sweaters or scarves. People who live here are still warning me that it's going to get really cold, that Texas does have a winter, but I don't believe it. It's going to be in the upper 50s and 60s for the whole next week, and anyway "really cold" in Texas is 32 degrees, as opposed to zero plus windchill factor back home.

And in any case, last night I participated in a birthday parade, in which about 100 (maybe 200?) costumed Austinites carried sparklers and played musical instruments and marched around a city park. And I wore a summer dress on a January night! And I danced and sweated and basically had the best time ever. So yes. Springtime. Texas. Poetry school. All very good.

AUDITIONS

I have quit the personals. Because I have some weird sense that the very idea of having a personals ad is a strike against a normal relationship. With myself.

Like everybody else, I am not a matrix of liked/disliked movies, music, and foods. Out of all of the people I'm attracted to, I doubt any of them would make it past a preliminary screening, because as much as they have qualities that I like, they have lots of qualities that I don't. Beyond that, I wouldn't even begin to figure out if they're attractive because of their looks or their personalities. Most of the time it's personality. And, because nobody is a matrix of their likes/dislikes, how would I expect to know this about somebody without some other information.

Of course, the main way to figure out if you like somebody's personality is a face-to-face meeting, but the last time I met with somebody from the personals, he was creepy and wouldn't shut up about orchids, his AMAZING TRANSLATIONS OF RIMBAUD, his deep deep respect for Kerouac as a technically brilliant writer (barf), and orchids once again. And he told me about a billion times that I was prettier than my picture, which, you're right, is a nice thing to say, but it started to seem like the only thing he could say, and sounded suspiciously stagey. Also, he tried to kiss me goodnight and I turned my cheek. And he wanted to drive me home, but sorry, NO WAY. I met a friend for coffee and told her half-jokingly that I would probably have an e-mail from him waiting when I got home. Which I did, by the way, and he included PICTURES OF HIMSELF WITH THE ORCHIDS. And a screen shot of his AMAZING RIMBAUD TRANSLATION. To which I replied, "Sorry, I didn't feel it, but thanks for an interesting evening." To which he replied twice (twice!) that it made no sense to go on another date if I wasn't into it. Twice! As if I hadn't already called the whole thing off! At least I got a poem out of it, my favorite from last semester.

So, in the aftermath of that particular weirdness, I stopped replying to anybody's messages. But I still checked my little personals thing a lot, just to see how many people viewed my profile, or winked at me, or whatever. I was some kind of approval vampire feeding on the false internet attention. So I deleted it a few weeks ago, because the whole thing seemed too ridiculous and sad to continue. Partly because I don't care to read another description of somebody's dream girl that runs like this: "I'm looking for an intelligent woman, somebody who does something creative with her life, funny, interesting, please be in shape." That's me, except for the shape part. We all know what that means. It may as well read, "no fatties." It's even worse when they lament their terrible luck in not meeting this amazing woman yet. And I realized that I didn't actually want to meet any of these people, but I did want to know how many of them found my one picture attractive. Which is gross and troubling to me.

I've gone cold turkey. I have no anonymous internet sources of physical approval. I think it's better this way, because the whole evaluative mess of the personals is too much for me.

But I am never going to give up the missed connections. Those are my soap operas, okay? I have to go because Blind Date is on TV!