Pent up demand.

When I was little, I used to sit in front of Saturday morning cartoons with a pen and paper and watch all the commercials to make my Christmas wish list. I remember the day this stopped working and being frustrated that there weren't any good toys these days -- completely ignorant to the fact it was I that had changed.

Now I scroll through the last several posts on Design Sponge and troll Etsy. And pretty much assume anything from Anthropologie is fair game. Happy places and playlands never go away, they just change location. Sort of like Narnia, you can never enter through the same way twice.

***

People always tell you life is too short to do something you hate. I would argue the real reason is because life is too long.

In the thousands of working hours clocked over a lifetime you could try, fail, rethink, regroup, change careers and go for it again a dozen times. I read this article a while back and what stuck out to me most was the idea that your dreams are not something you go for once you've made money or established yourself. The point being you will never have "enough" money and this course you've laid in the opposite direction of your dreams will be hard to repave.

Honestly, the idea of going for my dreams now seems quite scary. If I go for it now and find out at 25 that's not at all what I want to do with my life, I have no dreams left. I'd have to do some Oprah-size reevaluation to "dream a bigger dream" on a student-size budget. It's rare to financially outgrow your dreams.

***

Eve Harrington is a total bitch. There's nothing like being a johnny-come-lately to something popular or classic and having no one to share it with because everyone else is so over it already. At this rate I'll be reading Harry Potter in my eighties.

***

No, I haven't read Harry Potter.

***

I suppose I should stop blabbering and fill you guys in on the real world stuff that has been happening. Basically, work work work. Fun work, but work. It's been... almost a month since I started blogging for the Houston Press. Special care has been taken not to weigh myself since- Lord only knows how much I've gained with this get-out-of-guilt-free card. If I can write about it, I can eat it.

This morning I had a milkshake for breakfast.

At the very least, I'm poised to put away substantial amounts of pie this Thanksgiving, and will be getting my money's worth of food on my CRUISE which as of Thursday will be less than a month away.

***

Saving the best for last, I am officially a published writer. Not even kidding. Read Laura's post at The Queso for more details and fun pictures, but basically last week was the launch party where I got to meet a whole lotta Houston bloggers I admire including my fav, The Bloggess. Probably the most star-struck I've ever been considering the only other "famous" person I've ever met was Billy Bob Thornton when I was an extra in Friday Night Lights and after a day spent in the Astrodome yelling "GO PERMIAN!" in a band uniform I was mostly just agitated and grossed out by his combover.

Anyhow. It was awesome.

***

The second-closest I've ever come to meeting someone I admire is the time I went to Barnes & Noble on Westheimer and Voss to buy "Holidays on Ice" for my neice and the girl at the checkout counter was all "oh, you like David Sedaris? He was in the store last week signing books."

It may have been the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.

***

The end. Happy Thanksgiving.

Yes, I'm Aware.

I miss you too.

Now cut me some slack, I'm blogging for three these days.

First this

then this

and if I ever get to it this.

Love y'all. Thanks for sticking around.

IN the meantime, you should come to this.

Very Superstitious

Hokay, so I'm supposing for just about everyone that reads the blog, the news has already been broken, but to make it official....

As of this Wednesday,

I became on of the food bloggers for the Houston Press.

Yes.

Most of the time between now and finding out exactly one week ago today has felt something like an out-of-body experience. There was a point in the application process where I had gotten REALLY excited and typed up a whole list of ideas for blog posts only to delete them days later because I never thought I would actually get the job.

Now that I have two posts under my belt I feel confident enough to at least talk about it without feeling like I'd jinx it. When life gets this good, and things so eerily perfect for me just fall into place, it gives me the heebie jeebies.

Felt a little like Carrie Bradshaw walking into Vogue for the first time, knowing it was so right, hoping they felt that way too.

Just gotta remember "a little less you, a little more purse."

Ya no quieres caminar

I'm back from my long weekend in San Antonio.

And when I say long, I mean it. Count with me-

18 high school marching band performances (15 back-t0-back in a four-hour block)

9 total hours in the car

5 out of 6 meals Tex-Mex (two breakfast)

My skin is dry, my lips are chapped, I'm tired and itchy and I'm burping up foods I don't remember eating. There are several mariachis along the Riverwalk still bewildered by my family's adverse reaction to their presence. (Turns out when you spend five hours listening to marching bands the last thing you want is a trumpet six inches from your face wailing La Cucaracha while you eat dinner).

The good news:

-Saw my lovely sister's marching performance with my alma mater

-Found one of the best Sangrias I've had in a long while

-Stopped by Buc-cees in Luling to visit the shrine of all things Road Trip

-Picked up a couple of goodies at the San Marcos outlets

-Took some decent pictures at the Market Square I'll upload at some point...

Decent blog posts promised later as well. Spend the time in between contemplating why exactly the idea of eating next to a stream of running sewage is such a tourist attraction, and who ever decided that serving alcohol next to a water walkway with no guardrails was a good idea.

Someone like you and all you know and how you speak

Funny thing to spend your teenage years searching for people like you only to spend your twenties lamenting the discovery.

Yesterday's kindred spirits are today's competition. And with the growing knowledge of their existence thickens the reality of my inconsequence and the improbability of the lightning strike of success in art. Why me?

I've never come across a writer that didn't have a dysfunctional childhood, or at the very least a dysfunctional view of it. It would stand to reason that we ourselves, as creative types, are not functional. Craving the validation for our secret art and quiet obsessions, but shying from it at every opportunity. And when those braver than us try for it and win- we do not revel in the accomplishment, but grumble angrily to ourselves about how we could have done it better.

What is it about intelligence and creativity that scatters focus and creates a converse relationship between ability and drive?

It must be the same phenomenon that pairs the attainment of wisdom with the perception of knowing less. Perspective slides us to self-doubt in a way that leaves society to be run by the thick-headed and sure of foot.

The world we know is run by a steady stream of unflinching egotists- a blooper reel of American Idol contestants so sure they are the next big thing.

I need to add an ounce of stubborn to my daily vitamins. I'm starting to believe more and more that unfailing confidence and inability to quit can count more than true talent. But the more I build my confidence the more I question its source. If I build confidence and become necessarily blind to my abilities, what will I become? William Hung producing a CD of Ricky Martin covers?

If we put ourselves out there, can we choose to be so selective in defining success? Or do we take what we can get because it's better than distinguished, prideful anonymity?

Songs for Fat People

Since I started exercising I've become one of the people I despise most because I

(a) go jogging

(b) jog in such a way that it's actually slower than walking

As one such despicable person, I can tell you that music matters. I have to find songs slow enough to keep rhythm to (I was in marching band for four years, it's pretty much impossible not to set pace to the beat) while at the same time fast enough to add a skip of inspiration to my overly-labored hippopotamus steps.

After almost two full months of running, not only are my calves somewhat less gelatinous, I've managed by trial and error to create the perfect slow-jog playlist.

A generous sample:

Spoiled Brat.

This weekend Aaron and I decided our dog just might have too many toys, so we spent a little time this afternoon going through everything. Scientific tests were performed to determine the desirability and retrievability of various items.

A clear fail: