Sunday Sundries.

Owing to the sad fact that I found myself helpless to resist the Siren Song of Lame on Saturday—which means that even though I spent 22 dollars to see Bob Schneider at Antone’s, I decided I was too tired (I work on Saturdays, but it’s not as a bricklayer or anything like that, so still, LAME) and it was too cold outside (by Austin standards, anyway, which means it was fifty degrees outside. In January. And I spent my last winter in Boise. Which apparently did nothing for my perspective on these things. LAME!) to un-collapse myself from the heap I had fallen into, particularly since my lap was rife with aggressively cuddly cats, I woke on Sunday with a renewed determination to Make Something of the Day.

This ended up amounting to imbibing two Bloody Marys at Spider House while reading this excellent book (reading comprehension admittedly suffered toward the end there, on account of I am a lightweight and apparently had not eaten enough), then rifling fruitlessly through the racks at Buffalo Exchange, and then stopping at Jardin Corona for a perfectly okay (if unremarkable) chile relleno (at least it wasn’t a repeat of the infamous Velveeta Enchilada Debacle).

None of this quelled the quiet desperation of a Sunday afternoon, but then, that’s a tall order, and, as days go, it certainly could have been worse.

I think that throwing myself back into the novel, which I intend to do as of February 1, will help.

The most self-indulgent member of the Imperial Guard you'll ever meet.

The possible root cause of restlessness: there’s something about having a context that is essential to sanity, but also essentially limiting. Maybe I’d rather be a watcher in the woods with nary a tree of my own to bark up.

The thing about drinking to excess to quell what ails you: you wake up the next morning with the same set of afflictions and a hangover.

My proclivity for writing blog posts that start like this one, my own subjective rendering of a particular (and sometimes-wine-soaked) context at a particular time of my life—with the rough theme being what it’s like for a lone star to finally find her way to the Lone Star State and try to configure some sort of hardscrabble, self-made constellation to illuminate the darkness of these wide open skies—has me frequently pondering the question of self-indulgence. Also, the subject was raised here recently, thus turning my thoughts to the topic yet again. Is writing a blog—particularly a personal blog, as opposed to say, a cooking blog with recipes, which could be said to contain information of use and interest to someone other than its author-subject—self-indulgent?

Well, yes—supremely. That’s not really a question, is it?  But then, couldn’t anything that isn’t strictly necessary be said to fall under the umbrella of self-indulgence? Eating an ice cream cone, watching reality T.V., writing a blog post—what’s the difference? The former two are not—typically—conducted with an audience in mind, true, but then, isn’t anyone who leaves the house on a regular basis constantly engaged in a series of performances and personae, whether courtesy of the social contract or the need to sublimate, sublimate at the workplace?

And aren’t certain literary figures, lionized in certain circles, actually bloggers ahead of their time? Charles Bukowski, Henry Miller, and yes, Hunter S. Thompson too—all cannibalized their lives for material, made self-mythologizing a fine art and science, and spewed it out into the world. While you can argue degrees of relative talent, can blogging in the end be said to be any more self-indulgent than any other form of creative writing, personal narrative, or for that matter, other forms of self-expression (painting, composing, et cetera)?

As someone who perpetually and uneasily straddles the divide between compulsive self-disclosure (and the Yearning for the Ideal Audience Member for same) and the deep soul-craving for total anonymity, I’m not sure what to make of it all.

And thus ends Deep Thoughts Hour.

In other news, I discovered (or rather, received and followed through on a tip about) the best H.E.B. ever today: the one in the shopping center with the McDonald’s on Braker Lane. While it’s no Central Market, it’s as close as I can imagine any H.E.B. ever coming. They even had (a limited selection of) the Central Market muffins with which I am obsessed; I picked up a box of the ricotta-blueberry variety. Also spotted:

* Cheese in the shape of Texas!

* Wine, wine, wine!

* A woman who, absorbed in her cell phone conversation, knocked over three large bags of potatoes, briefly removed her head from her derriere to survey her handiwork, and decided that picking them up was someone else’s problem

Which, dear readers, is this H.E.B.’s fatal flaw: people shop there. Oh well, roses and thorns, and all of that. If I can bring myself to brave Research Boulevard on a regular basis (without flipping anybody off, but come on, when you swerve the sports car that is so clearly and tragically an ineffectual attempt to overcompensate for your tiny member INTO AN EXIT LANE so that you can CROSS THE DIVIDE WHERE IT FORKS OFF TO PASS SOMEONE, you have that and a whole lot worse coming to you, Jack, seriously where is that meteor?), then I think I’ve finally found my H.E.B.

And! Most important of all: 

These smart kicks (to which my shoddy photography do not do justice) are going to make me the coolest kid in school. Look, Ma! Thirty-two years old and in the Imperial Guard!

A proud moment, to be sure. 

A fine addition to any single gal's closet—what would Carrie Bradshaw say? 

Dude, where’s my momentum?

Doused in doses of DayQuil from a plastic cup, for one thing (although I’m feeling better now), and dimmed by the slow, dull deadening of routines, routines, routines. Beyond that, there hasn’t been much to report, which always makes me feel like this reflects a character deficit on my part. I could detail the sundries of a restless Sunday: the fact that it’s eighties weekend (eighties meaning herein Phil Collins, Huey Lewis and the News, and, in a redemptive moment, Blondie) on the radio station Supercuts was blaring this afternoon (Mix 106.5?); that I vacuumed for the first time in about a month; that, as part of a desperate search for something (and also because I have until February to use up the remaining two classes—make that one class—on my pass), I went to a yoga class for the first time since commencing this most recent stint of gainful employment.

This class was my introduction to Kundalini yoga, and it was more of a staged event than a class. I’m pleased to report that Kundalini yoga (or at least this instructor’s interpretation thereof) has an acute sense of the absurd, manifesting in a sing-along, the presence of a gong, an—I poop you not—interpretive dance segment (my specialty), and a whistling segment (which was awkward, since I never learned how to whistle—not that I went along with the chanting or sing-along segments either). I'm also pleased to report that I do believe (my conscientious objection to choice portions of the class notwithstanding) I did not commit any yoga fouls this time around, although I suppose this is anti-climactic with respect to blogging purposes.

I’ve been feeling deeply restless lately, trapped in a holding pen of sorts, a feeling that has defined far too much of my adult life to far too great an extent. I’m not sure what the answer is, or if this is even something to be viewed in terms of a “question” that has an “answer”. The novel is necessarily shelved until February—I already want to go back to it, but I need the critical distance that only comes with time so I can make a decision about whether to push forward or move on to something else. Everything else is up in the air, and is apt to be for—well, I don’t know how long, exactly, and that’s making me a little nuts. There again, I guess nothing’s ever certain, is it?

Meanwhile, I’m trying to sustain my own momentum and remain focused on the goals at hand, with a mind toward hatching longer term goals, but all of this only goes so far toward abating this overriding sense of simultaneous flailing and paralysis, and a certain feeling of being, well, rudderless. Like many things, this isn’t, at its heart, particularly complicated. Difficult, yes—and it’s easy to equate the two. But the fundamentals are pretty straightforward; as this post has already generated enough navel lint to make a navel lint poncho (shut up, that metaphor is not awkward), it will suffice to say that a certain amount of focused waiting is required at the moment: the sort that balances the art of watching, holding still, and being patient with that of acting, moving, and not wasting any more precious time. Surely, this balance can be achieved, and surely this is a valuable exercise, even if it is to an extent an exercise in floundering. Maybe it’s a matter of learning to flounder with grace and aplomb, of learning to appreciate this unflagging restlessness as a sign of health, of being alive, of being ready for the next project, the next challenge, the next bevy of new experiences.

We shall see.

Meanwhile, it’s time for leftover mushroom risotto and zinfandel.

Also, I’m looking forward to seeing Bob Schneider at Antone’s this Saturday.

And maybe, for the time being, that’s enough.

San Antonio.

There are always going to be scads of good excuses not to leave the apartment:

I’m tired.

It’s cloudy.

I got too late a start today.

I’ll get lost.

I’m All Alone in the World.

There will be traffic, and the way people—and sometimes even I!—drive makes me wish this species would go extinct already.

Gas is expensive.

It was in light of this that I forced myself to relinquish my hermitage today to fulfill my New Year’s resolution of a once-monthly Texas tourist jaunt by trekking to San Antonio.

I parked more or less on top of the Alamo, which I found by accident. It was the Alamo, all right—nice architecture. And I learned things! I learned that the battle of the Alamo was part of the Texas Revolution; while the former was lost, the latter was won, and thus the Independent Republic of Texas came to be in 1836. Texas became the 28^th state in the union in 1845, starting a war with Mexico in which California, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona (am I leaving any states out?) were usurped (or, “acquired”, as the museum plaque put it) by the United States. These are things I should probably have retained from the second grade, but, for whatever paucity of character this betrays, I am not a history buff—so let’s hear it for learning, even if it is too little, too late!

Wandering about the museum was an interesting opportunity to reflect on the extent to which the fetishism of objects defines history. Among the objects displayed were a locket that purportedly contains a lock of Davey Crockett’s hair (kindly note the assonance) and, of course, the many means of wounding and killing, including a Bowie knife, rifles, swords, and cannons and cannonballs.

Perhaps I am betraying my foul, sour, and shrewish nature by giving voice to the following observation, but it was strange to watch couples nuzzle and canoodle all around what is, after all, a commemorative battle site, replete with a display case featuring uniform buttons suspected to have been charred by a funeral pyre. And, since I’m being foul, sour, and shrewish, I will also note that  I suppose the girl glued to her iPhone was too transfixed by its hypnotic powers as she wandered the exhibit like the Walking Dead to notice the many signs imploring visitors to turn off all electronic devices while inside. I did not, alas, have a chance to visit the Alamo’s basement. Maybe next time.

After the Alamo, it was on to the River Walk, which reminded me a little bit of the canals in Utrecht. The purpose of the preceding comment is of course to point out that I have been to Utrecht. San Antonio itself (at least the highly touristy part to which I confined myself) reminded me a little of Barcelona, with its helpful proliferation of signs listing the surrounding attractions and arrows leading the way. The purpose of the preceding comment is of course to point out that I have been to Barcelona. I wandered about dazedly for a bit and then ordered an unremarkable quesadilla and an all-right margarita (both scandalously overpriced, but what did I expect at a tourist joint?) at a thoroughly forgettable Mexican restaurant along the river. Things spied on the River Walk include:

A family walking around wearing paper chef toques

Mariachi bands

A man toting a small, bedraggled white dog with what looked like a cigar hanging out of its mouth

Many cowboy hats

Ducks!

After the River Walk, I wandered the surrounding area a bit, peeking through the doors of the Majestic Theater to catch a glimpse of its marvelous interior. It was already almost dark at that point (I got, as I said, a ridiculously late start today), so I returned to the car, happy to have realized my ambitions of Texas tourism for the month of January, and even happier to wend my way back to hermitage. 

 Rest assured that there are places to sit in the Alamo. Also rest assured that, should you forget that you are in Texas, these benches will remind you.

Anyone can take pictures of the Alamo—as subjects go, I favored this alley!

In keeping with my tradition of photo-documenting Texas restrooms, here is the door to the ladies' room of the restaurant where I ate lunch!

For the gents.

Apparently I have benches on the brain.

These guys look drunk. Also, does this count as cannibalism?

Stupid days and silver linings.

Maybe if I’d taken into account that today is Friday the Thirteenth before I left the house, I would’ve reconsidered, but I didn’t, and thus we have yet another contender for Stupidest Day Ever, replete with unsuccessful ventures to two H.E.B.s for what I presumed to be the basic staples of red lentils and ginger (neither of which I ever had any trouble acquiring in markedly less diverse Boise, Idaho—and that’s one thing I’ll say for the WinCo I used to go to while living there, for all I’ve reviled that place: their produce selection was considerable, and their bulk bins were fantastic), loading my laundry yet again into a non-functioning dryer, and more close calls than I can count with motorists whose heads and derrieres existed in a proximity far too close for them to safely operate heavy machinery.

I realized something today, friends: H.E.B. is Austin’s equivalent of WinCo and I needs must avoid it forthwith, because the two I visited today (and the commute between them) were almost sufficiently vexing to make me fall clear out of love with Austin, and I like being in love with Austin, dear reader(s). And while I can see the humor in the fact that I had no problem scaring up tempeh at the first H.E.B. I visited this morning, while ginger, for the love of God, ginger, was nowhere to be found (and yes, I realize I should quit my whining and just start eating hamburgers), my blood sugar was, by this point, at a level where my reaction was more along the lines of W.T. and his good friend F. than hahahaha.

But! My grocery travails had a silver lining, in that they forced me to venture beyond my pathetically staid trajectory and visit Apna Bazaar, which had red lentils and ginger. Also acquired:

Yellow split peas

Curry powder

Guava juice

Frozen entrees: Paneer Makhani and some chickpea-based dish (not Chana Masala)—because even though one of my New Year’s resolutions was to get back into cooking, and I’ve been doing better with this, life, as we know, is not always—or often—ideal

The bazaar is located in this dingy, depressing little strip mall across from 183. Its drab exterior belies the fact that it contains the world on a silver platter. There’s an Indian restaurant, run in conjunction with the grocery store, an Asian grocery store and restaurant, and Mexican and Cajun restaurants as well. I also noticed some defunct-seeming joint that was evidently once dedicated to some form of Brazilian dance or martial arts (I don’t think it was Capoeira). I must return and visit them all.

Meanwhile, I’m going to make this soup and plot my first-ever visit to San Antonio on Sunday or Monday.

Word count: 40,763 and wondering when you just say, “Look, it’s not working out between us” and throw in the towel

Food chains and stepping ladders.

It seems that whenever I find myself within spitting distance of the Straight and Narrow Path of Completely Righteous Eating, an insatiable craving for Filet-O-Fish sandwiches sends me on a jag without an end in sight. Depravity! Fortunately, “Not Being a Flaming Hypocrite” was not among my New Year’s resolutions, and I’ve always maintained that when eating becomes more of a chore than a joy, this little experiment in Doing Better (in terms of what I understand this to mean in the present moment) is getting tossed out the window.

So let’s hear it for human fallibility!

However, being a Texas tourist was among my resolutions, and I plan to make good on this either this Sunday or Monday, since I have a—for me, rare—two-day weekend coming up. Essentially, the plan is to get outside of what has alarmingly become my pathetic five-mile radius (work, store, bank, et cetera) and take advantage of living in Austin, a city whose surface I’ve barely scratched, and Texas, a state I have seen more or less nothing of outside of Austin, which I have heard more than once “is not Texas”.  The idea is to undertake an outing once a month that furthers this end.

Now the question is, where to? Some new (to me) and fascinating part of Austin? San Antonio, maybe?

Submarine sandwiches and further chronicles of a crazy cat lady.

I’d heard about this place and I finally tried it out today (I had the tuna salad with provolone and black olives on whole wheat), and it was quite good.

There was also a Petco nearby, which prompted the purchase of several small, furry toy mice and a recycled cardboard-based scratching post in hopes of encouraging Meep to stop shredding the walls and thus sending me spiraling into financial ruin. I’m hoping this one provides a sufficiently hard surface for her claws, since she refuses to use the other two perfectly good scratching posts (or the carpet, which, while not ideal, would be less destructive than the walls) already on hand. The post came with a little packet of catnip to be sprinkled on it so as to allure the cat to use it. I dutifully sprinkled the catnip across the post, which did indeed attract the mooshies’ interest. They began to rub their heads all over it. Seeing that I had their undivided attention, I began to run my fingernails over the post, with the goal of encouraging Meep to do the same (Spartacus, for as high maintenance as he is in other respects, confines his scratching to appropriate surfaces, and thus was not the target audience for this demonstration).

“Look,” I told Meep, “I’m modeling appropriate scratching behavior.”

At which point I glanced over at her and saw her rolling around, blissed out on drugs, and paying not a lick of attention to my positive example.

Oh, well—it was a nice idea. 

What I would like Meep to scratch. 

What Meep likes to scratch.

A Lone Sock in the Lone Star State.

Post office mission accomplished! And since I am being extra-super-virtuous and productive today (New Year, new me, woo hoo!), I even got an oil change while I was at it.

And I did laundry. Which brings me to the peculiar phenomenon of the Lone Black Sock—not mine—that always makes its way into the dryer when it’s time to remove my freshly dried clothes. I have no idea how this happens. I check the dryer before I put my clothes in, and it’s empty. It’s only after the clothes are ready to come out of the dryer that the rogue sock appears. I check the washer before I put my clothes in there, too, and it too is always empty beforehand. I have tried putting it back in the laundry room after I discover it, in hopes that its rightful owner will claim it. It always finds its way back to me. So I can only reasonably conclude that Someone is Sending Me a Message.

But what could it mean?

Girls and boys.

If there is a greater panoply of human ugliness and stupidity than the American roadway, I do not wish to experience it.

On a brighter note, evidently spring comes to Austin in January. The highs are expected to be in the low seventies today, and the mission statement of the weather seems to be “I will seduce you,” with blue skies, balmy breezes, singing birds, the works. And way too many people operating heavy machinery before the anesthesia from their lobotomies has worn off.

On today’s to-do list is a trip to the post office, so certain naughty little boys and girls should beware the imminent arrival of packages which may or may not be delivered by the krampus.

Word count (yep, still hacking away, dull machete in hand, at the oppressive foliage of a full-length novel—shut up, that metaphor is not at all awkward): 38, 773

Happy New Year and fire beans!

In what I can only assume was another essential rite of passage in my transition toward being a Real Live Texan, I made the acquaintance of this peculiar object yesterday:

 

My colleague discovered it in the parking lot and, at his behest, I rubbed it against the asphalt and then pressed it against my skin because a.) I do everything I’m told and b.) I was skeptical of his claim that this would produce a burning sensation. It turns out that c.) it really does, and it hurts. A lot. Like making contact with a baking sheet fresh out of the oven.

Who knew?

If I were inclined to stretch this incident into an augury for 2012, I would hope that it would be something along the lines of the continued discovery of things curious and fantastic, and calculated risks, even if that means getting a little bit burned.

Which is to say, happy New Year, dear readership. May it herald health, wealth (whatever you perceive that to be), wisdom, and joy for y’all.