Completely OK at Forking

I miss Amelia. I miss her so much. Amelia is the big sister I never had. She fills in all the gaps left by a dramatic teenhood and a funny relationship with my mother. She tells me what I need to hear, and sometimes what I want to hear, but would never sugar-coat something important. She's the only person I know who fully appreciates driving fast down the interstate blasting Bryan Adams ("Summer of 69") and singing along until the third verse at which point we sort of mumble forgotten lyrics (RIP Amelia's car's speakers). She doesn't make fun of me for having too many cats...usually. And she gives the best hugs ever (sorry, Mark). I really miss her.

Amelia moved to Arizona in February, shortly after I moved to Texas. It's great for her - AZ is where her family is, it's her home base, and, as an Army wife and sometimes-single mother (when the hubby is overseas), she needs all the support she can get. But it sucks for me, 'cause it's way farther to her house now than it used to be. You could listen to that Bryan Adams song at least a billion more times.

I love my life here, and as much as I'd like to cut myself in two and have my left hand with Amelia and my right hand with Mark, I hear that science hasn't advanced enough for this to be possible. So I do what I can. I listen to Sunny Day Real Estate and The Appleseed Cast and all that great emo music that was cool before the bad haircuts and black eyeliner of recent years. I keep a loaf of bread she made me in the freezer (we were saving it for sandwiches but then we forgot to get the sandwich meat and then it was Amelia bread so how could I eat it?), I tell anyone who will listen about my fabulous BFF, I chuckle every time I see the flashlight she gave me (inside jokes are awesome), and I bake my little heart out.

Amelia and I both grew up with a love for baking. She is a perfectionist, and rightfully so. I swear, if she weren't such a good Christian who didn't want to show up Jesus, she could make water from wine. She makes the hard stuff look easy. I marvel at the ease with which she makes biscuits - the first time I visited her, last June (it's almost our anniversary), she made me biscuits for breakfast, but had run out of white flour, and used whole wheat. Amelia claims they weren't that great, but I swear, to this day, they are the best biscuits I've ever had.

This winter I was at her house and she pulled from her freezer a bag of rolled peanut butter dough (see how she even plans such simple things ahead? I would never have the patience), and together we made hash marks in them with forks. I told her how this past Christmas, in all the hullabaloo of my mother's baking frenzy (my sister and I counted about 25 different types of cookies that she baked enormous batches of for the neighbors, work, family, etc.) I'd been banned from forking the peanut butter cookies because I wasn't being neat enough. Amelia thought this was funny and told me I did a fine job. So today, as I made peanut butter cookies (an amalgam of several internet recipes, posted below), I couldn't help but to text my best friend and tell her how much I missed her, and her faith in my fork-hashing skills.

In response she called me, my phone showing a silly kissy-face photo of her, blasting a tinny "Summer of 69." She told me she would send me good-hashing vibes, and I guess it worked, 'cause the cookies came out both pretty and delicious. Neither of us really like peanut butter cookies all that much, either. But they're fun to make, and these have extra brown sugar for extra chewiness and pb and chocolate chips for extra yumminess. I know it's summer, but with a little AC, what's turning the oven on, if it reminds you of your dearest amigo?

Amelia-Chip* Peanut Butter Cookies:

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup natural crunchy peanut butter
1 + 1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 large egg
1 tablespoon water
1/2 cup chocolate chips
1/2 cup peanut butter chips

*No actual Amelias contained in this cookie. Mostly because we like Amelia, but also because Amelia would taste gross, even though she's awesome.

Preheat your oven to 350°. In a medium-sized bowl combine the dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. In a large mixing bowl use an electric mixer (or a really strong hand) to blend the peanut butter and the butter until smooth and creamy. Blend in the sugar, and then add the egg and the water. When thoroughly blended, slowly add the dry ingredients. The dough should be soft but crumbly. Stir in the chocolate and peanut butter chips (if you want, Nestle makes some fun "swirl" chocolate chips, including a milk chocolate/peanut butter blend. I used two cups of these instead of one cup of each kind). Using your hands pinch bits of dough from the bowl and form into small 1-2 inch balls. Roll the dough in your palms, but don't over-handle! Set the balls of dough about an inch apart on a non-stick cookie sheet, and using the back of a fork, make hash marks in the dough. This will flatten the dough some, but be aware that they still will spread out by baking! Bake the cookies from 10-15 minutes. Let cool on a drying rack (wax paper on a counter top works just as well) and enjoy with a loved one. Or by yourself. Or send them to your best friend in Arizona (if she likes peanut butter cookies).

PS, Amelia, I made this one after you called, because your vibes helped me hash a heart:

Morse-Adkins Cat Motor Lodge

Last night being Saturday night, Mark and I were actually going to do the whole date night thing and see that new M. Night Shyamalan movie at the nearest theater. We were about to leave when he realized he'd lost his wallet and after scouring the house for an hour still couldn't find it. While we still could have made the movie, I'm a broke book store employee and can't afford movie tickets for two until pay day (if I want to eat this week). We changed plans, drove out to Waterloo Video and rented some horror films — The Eye (the original Chinese version), Teeth, and Ab-Normal Beauty (another Chinese film). We came home (with sodas from Sonic, of course) still mourning the loss of Mark's wallet, but on our way in heard some noise in the bushes. It sounded like a cat, so we started taking a mental inventory of our animals. All but one stay inside at all times, and that one wasn't out. So we started calling —here, kitty, kitty etc — until out walked a black beauty of an animal, mewling. She immediately flopped over at Mark's feet begging to be loved.

It's hot enough in Texas for people, but, for a domestic animal that clearly has spent most of its life indoors, the summer sun is brutal. We couldn't leave this poor girl outside so Mark scooped her up and we brought her directly into our bathroom where she would be safe, but still separate from the resident population. I wish this was the first time this had happened to us, but apparently there is some neon sign on the front of our house: FREE FOOD. CAT MOTEL.

Two of our other cats are charity cases. Mocha, the irritable Siamese came to me back in New York when a room mate neglected her and I just took her on when the girl moved out. And Turkleton, our big Abyssinian mix, lived under our porch for several months before we deemed it too hot for him to live out there anymore. This is in addition to the two cats we adopted on purpose: my Maine Coon, Telemachus and Mark's three-legged calico, Beatrice. Seriously, we are not wanting for cats.

But people keep dumping their animals, which I guess shouldn't be shocking to me, since it's a crisis in just about every area, urban or rural. The impression I get of Austin, though, is of a caring, neighborly community full of activists and leaders and people who should give a shit about their pets. I've called every veterinarian in the area, as well as the Town Lake Animal Center (where all lost pets in Austin are registered), the SPCA, and the Animal Trustees of Austin. No one has called them about their missing cat.

We really can't afford to keep this baby girl, even though we are already growing attached, so we're hoping to find a friend to take her in if we can't locate her family. I met one family today who were hoping that their lost kitty was the one we found, but it just wasn't in the cards, and they're the only possible family that Craigslist has turned up. My biggest fear is that someone thought it would be a good idea to get a black cat on Friday the 13th - for a prank or a party or just for funsies - then thought better of it and ditched her. Thankfully, she's in good spirits anyway.

I'm pretty sure that my readers are the proverbial choir, but, seriously guys, lets take care of these furry creatures, at least for karma's sake.

Growing Up: Still Just for Old People

So I was reading up on Scott Westerfeld, since I'm currently ensconced in his Uglies series, and in his FAQ he states that while he has written adult fiction before, he is wary to go back because a) adults don't send as much fan mail and b) adults tend to stick to one genre or author and do not venture elsewhere. He said some other stuff, too, but I'm a lazy paraphraser.

It sort of makes me wonder how many great authors I missed the boat on by moving directly from my non-reader phase to my literary snob phase shortly after college. I'm working on that, at the moment reading a lot of teen fiction, and consequently feeling more and more overwhelmed by the day by the amount of adult books that are also out there. I mean, literally, piles and piles of books I'll never be able to read in my lifetime.

It's a dilemma. A coworker and I talked about it today, and it's one of those conversations that always ends like this:

"Yeah."
"Yeah."
(awkward silence)

I've often joked about wanting to read books by osmosis - simply by touching a book to my face all of its contents would work into my brain and I'd be full of knowledge and pleasure. But of course there's a fundamental problem with this plan, just as with any revolutionary idea: what about the pleasure in the process of reading? In whizzing through books the way I have been over the last few weeks (I feel really smart and cocky and have to keep reminding myself I'm reading stuff written for people whose brains are still developing), I feel myself rushing to get from one book to the next. I used to read in a more leisurely manner, taking in only 20-30 pages in a sitting, usually while waiting for something or riding somewhere, and would stretch a book out over a couple of weeks. And sometimes I'd do this on purpose, just to savor the last few pages of a delectable book (most memorably, Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland).

So here I am, with a hundred pages left of Pretties, both excited and scared that I've got so much to read when I'm done. There's Specials, the third book of the Uglies trilogy, and at some point the follow up, Extras, will come out in paperback. Meanwhile the boss lady gave me a pile of books to read to prepare for the fall season at the store. And, of course, there's my own ever-expanding home library (I swear, sometime soon, I'm going to read Stephanie Klein's memoir, Moose, since, you know, I've got a signed copy at arm's length right now and a girl needs some nonfiction every now and then).

The idea of growing up and giving up on reading (again) scares me. Is Westerfeld right? Am I going to limit myself to one tiny chunk of the literary world (contemporary fiction, authors C through L, perhaps?), or can I fight it, push the boundaries of adulthood and rebel against the tendency toward stagnation? I'd like to think I will. It's not like I'm any good at growing up anyway, and it will be something to do when I'm too old and wrinkly to be seen in public. But only time will tell, and as far as I can see, it will be a while before I let the joy of reading slip away again.

The Next Movement: Death by Words

It's April, and you know what that means - it's National Poetry Month! Some of us, in the name of Masochism, I suppose, have twisted this into (Inter-)National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo. This is much like NaNoWriMo, except instead of writing a 50k novel, the goal is to write a poem for each day of the month of April. Poets in several communities, online and off, I'm sure, are participating, cheering each other on, and cranking out verse. The idea, much like with NaNo, is not not necessarily to produce top notch writing, but simply to produce. It's an exercise in endurance, in breaking through writers' block, and, for me, in having 30 poems at the end of April that I might edit into something decent come May.

So far I'm doing well, and have penned five poems over the past five days (today's has yet to be written, but I'm sure I'll get there before I fall asleep). I started with a list of topics I might write about, with some lines and phrases and words that I'd like to work into my poetry, and have been referring back to this list for inspiration from time to time. Strangely enough, I seem to keep writing about bugs, which is weird, because I hate bugs. At the same time, it's not so weird, because I love watching Discovery Channel specials on bugs. They're fascinating.

This is the third year I've participated in NaPo, and since in the past two years I completed the task, I'm raising the bar for myself. I'd really like to write 30 pieces that are usable. Even though NaPoWriMo isn't about quality, I think as a writer I need to challenge myself. Several poems from last year, and even a few from the year before, have since been published, and I wish I had more salvageable works to draw from. This is partially because I'm hoping to take a big leap in the upcoming months - toward a chapbook or a collection.

I'm not sure of the exact benefits entailed in having a book of poetry vs. having pieces published in magazines, but I've been assured that they are many. Of course I also like the idea of having a selection of work all in one place that my amassed fans grandmother can pick up and enjoy. At this point in my career, I am a bit loathe to self-publish. I am rather confident that with time and patience I might stand a chance in the big kid's league.

So, in the very near future, I will be submitting manuscripts to the Mimesis Digital Chapbook Contest (my manuscript for this contest will include my photography as well), and to the Templar Poetry Pamphlet & Collection Competition. Wish me luck!

Only The Fashion Police Can Judge Me

There is little more unnerving than cleaning out your closet and taking your clothes to a consignment store. Let me explain.

I have a clothing addiction. It's been a problem since I first started my career as a mallrat in the 7th grade. I bought things that I thought were hip, but not suited to my body type, just because they were on sale at Contempo for $4. As I got into high school I would buy things that I would have to take in or fix because, well, this is a deal and just because the zipper is busted, well, $12 for this twill tube dress is just awesome! By college I had discovered the glory of eBay and the array of DIYers and thrift-store junkies that sold their goods therein. I wound up with clothes that didn't quite fit or that weren't quite like what they appeared as in the listing or that were so outrageous that I wore them to one party or on one day at class and then stuffed back into my teeny tiny exploding college dorm closet.

You can imagine how much my wardrobe expanded when I lived in Brooklyn for two years, with a professional salary to boot. I went to actual (not virtual) thrift stores, bargain stores like Daffy's, and neat local shops. There was an H&M on almost any corner and I knew where to find the best sales at the cool boutiques. When I started packing to move to Austin, I found tons of clothes that still had the sales tags in my closet. In addition, you can imagine, I pulled out many skirts, jackets, shoes and t-shirts that were never going to see the light of day again. And, so, I took them to Beacon's Closet, the hippest thrift store I'd ever been to, and dumped my items on their counter.

My boyfriend, Mark, came with me that day for emotional support. We went to lunch while they evaluated my goods, and I dreamed of the pile of money I was going to rake in. Much to my chagrin, I became only $11 richer that day, despite the designer jeans (still with tags!), funky vintage waitress dresses, trendy shoes and cashmere sweaters I had in the huge bag. They told me "we bought these two pair of shoes which will retail for $35," and gave me a voucher to cash at the front of the store. My heart pretty much dunked itself in sadsauce, but I had already resolved to, for the sake of the move, give whatever the didn't take to charity. I took my $11 and swallowed my pride.

Pride, because, what feels worse than a bunch of hipsters telling you "only two pairs of shoes in this whole bag of swag are cool enough for our store"? My answer is this: hipsters going through even MORE of your clothes in an even HIPPER town while you watch them reject pieces one by one.

Today my dear friend Katy gave up some of her time to take me and four big shopping bags' worth of clothes and shoes to a really cool shop called the Buffalo Exchange. Apparently this is a national chain, so you might have one near you. Reader, I must tell you, get thee to one of their locations should you find one in your area. What variety! What style! What a disaster for a girl on a mission to save more money this year! Katy and I browsed the aisles briefly while one of the super-hip store managers began to evaluate my clothes. Quickly we decided to go back to the counter before either of us were tempted to part with some sweet, sweet green. I found myself eying her, praying in my head each time she grabbed an item out of the bag: Please take this one, please take this one, this one is sooooo awesome!

Damn. It's like being personally evaluated on a cool-o-meter over and over. In my head I imagined her saying "Wow, this girl is so lame — she bought this hideous sweater!" and "Jesus, why would she think this is hip? This isn't vintage, this is dated!" and "There's 'so ugly it's cute,' and 'so ugly it should be burned!'" I supposed I live more in fear of judgment than the average gal, but I'm willing to bet I'm not the only person who feels this way at the counter of a consignment store. At least I made more than $11 today. I walked out with a clean $53.20. And promptly took Katy on a very romantic date at Sonic. We even shared dessert.

The Dynamic is All to Boom

Recently, my boyfriend and I watched that episode of The Simpsons where Milhouse and his mom move to Capital City and Milhouse goes all bling bling and Bart is instantaneously lonely. I've never had my best friend move away before. Until Amelia left.

I moved to Austin last month, just in time to catch some quality time with my best friend, Amelia, before she moved back to her home state of Arizona. This move occurred on Friday. Amelia, the trooper, drove all 900 miles in one day. And I rode the bus wearing my "Where the heck is Copperas Cove, TX? t-shirt that Amelia brought me from her now former town.


I found myself at some of the places Amelia and I went the first time I came to Austin, and looking for her favorite ice cream flavor (Vosges Naga - a curry flavor - weird but delicious!) at Whole Foods. I couldn't write about it. Standing at the bus stop I texted her:

"Some jerk is taking up the whole bus stop bench with his leg."
"Lame!"
"Ew now he moved and his fat hairy crack is falling out of his pants!"
"Better crack than junk!"
"Toats."

The bus was late. It was just after rush hour. A long trail of traffic stretched down Lamar from the stop light. Two old men in a pick up truck were waving and moving their lips. In New York I would have ignored them, but apparently in Texas talking to strangers on the side of the road is totally normal and almost expected. I took off my headphones.

"Take 190 from I35!"
"That's...true"

Before the traffic moved, I told the old man about Amelia and he told me that she was lucky, and gave Cove the thumbs-down. I texted her again.

"Some old dude in a truck saw me at the bus stop and gave me directions to Cove."
"Oman laffo!"
"Srs. He said you're lucky!"
"Don't I know it!"

And she is. She's going back to Arizona where her family is, and a lot of her friends. She'll have people to help her with her little girl while her husband is in Iraq.

On Thursday night, before the Great Escape from Texas, we had our last hurrahs. Mark took us to the Alamo Drafthouse to see Be Kind, Rewind - it was hilarious and sentimental, and artsy enough to quell Mark (who is just about the biggest movie snob ever). We found our friends Katy and Sarah (like little sisters to Amelia and I both) and frolicked on 6th street. I watched her almost lick the building that houses Emo's, a very scenester nightclub that Amelia never actually made it to during her time here. We shared a peach-flavored cigarette from Sarah's 75-cent pack (don't tell my gran. I don't really smoke). We laughed at the skinny sorority girls wearing their teeny tiny uniforms. We let her dogs out in my yard, where they peed on my fence. And, in the morning, she came in to wake me up, told me that I didn't have to get out of bed, and said goodbye to my cats, and then to me.

I miss her.

This is Your Blog on Drugs

That's what I was going to call this blog, anyway. It turns out the prescription painkillers I was prescribed did almost nothing for me. Oh, well.

I was brushing my teeth last week when suddenly a piece of my molar fell off. Well, it more or less peeled off. That's what you get for ignoring your cavities, kiddies. I officially feel like a southwestern hillbilly. Luckily I had two days left of insurance from my previous job in which to have a dental adventure.

I'm petrified of the dentist. Honestly, as far as I'm concerned, anyone who wants to spend their lives inside other people's mouths is either a nut job or a sadist or both. Of course, I have to make the exception for my boyfriend's mum, a dental hygienist, who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. We called her that night at around 1am to find out what we should do, and she didn't even complain about the hour. In any case, I just don't understand the profession, and most of the tools I see in the office resemble torture devices from spy movies. (Remember that tooth-pulling torture guy from Alias? Seriously. Imagine that guy giving you a root canal and that's what I picture every time someone says "dentist.")

I've sort of known for months that I needed a root canal, actually. The molar in question has been in pain for years, following what I think was a botched filling. The dental industry has had so many opportunities to redeem itself, but is constantly failing. This particular incident was in November 2004 - I had three fillings done and, not only did 8 shots of Novocaine not numb me while drilling, the fillings hurt constantly for several months. And it wasn't just a little ache, or a sensation when eating hot or cold. It was a constant throbbing, blinding pain in my teeth.

I called the dentist and she prescribed a painkiller (it was acetaminophen-based, but I don't remember what the naughty stuff in it was. Not codeine, though, since I was too busy in college to be taking anything that would render me useless), which, as per usual, did nothing. I put myself on a regimen of Excedrin, taking two or three pills every four hours, including a dose at bedtime to avoid waking up in excruciating pain (this almost always failed). By January or February I was no longer in constant pain, but still had regular toothaches. Even years later that one molar always bothered me, but I just thought that, with my history of panic and anxiety, it could be psychosomatic.

When a brown spot appeared on the tooth — followed by a crack — I knew I was wrong. So last week when the tooth just finally broke, I wasn't so much shocked but angry that I'd let my fear of dentists get the better of me.

Seriously, though. The dentist guy from Alias. So scary.

So I've got a temporary filling in place and will be getting a crown on Tuesday. I'm not happy about it, but seeing as the only real pain I've had so far from the root canal is from chewing up my own cheek (and let me tell you, that is some serious pain), I'm feeling better about it. But, you know, if I'm going to be doing this whole dental thing on a regular basis, I'd better at least get some fun drugs out of it.