Drifting thoughts of a snowflake

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Are you my drinking shoes?

I just received an email from a friend inviting me to his parent’s birthday party. The last line of his email read:

“So glad you’re coming, bring your drinking shoes”

Ah yes, the drinking shoes. I do have a shoe fetish. I love my shoes in a way that most strait men reserve for dogs and gay men reserve for liquor. Let’s see if I can explain it.

My all time favorite drinking shoes are my Mary Janes. They look like this without the sparkles. Now that I see they have a pair that can out do Dorothy, I might upgrade. These puppies are usually trust worthy enough to not let you fall down regardless of the amount of liquor your liver is trying to process. My MJ’s are tall and patent leather, but I’m afraid my love lust is fading.

Here’s the story:

I dropped off Cal after the Beastie Boys concert last weekend, and immediately had to “go”. I’m one of those people that when I have to go, I have to go. I don’t care where I am or who’s around, I’m going. Yes my mother would be horrified to know this about me, but she has enough on her plate-so keep it quiet.

I pulled into a dead end street and jumped out. I ran behind my car, squatted down, started my business and immediately fell backwards. I looked over my shoulder and there right behind me was this bad boy. Thanks, Mary Jane! I blame you.

This really isn’t the funny part. The funny part was that I had dressed in pseudo costume for the concert. The theme was “imaginative pageant”, and I used this as an excuse to pull out my 1960’s vintage tuxedo. The suit is a combination of polyester and velvet. The tux is tailor made for a very petite woman, so the legs and arms are a little short on me. The bottom of the pants are belled out and short, so they look best with my Mary Jane’s. To top off my ensemble I wore a long ponytail wig, silver eye shadow, and blood red lipstick. Imagine a Texas call girl, not quite a street hooker, but close.

The bad part of the story (I’m sure you’re wondering how much worse it can get) is that once I fell, I couldn’t get up. I was sprawled out on the pavement laughing hysterically, which enabled me from pulling myself up. Then I became desperate as the following scenario played itself out in my head.

The next morning the construction workers show up at the house they are building at the end of the street. As they pull up they notice my car. They walk around my car and find a woman in a pint sized tuxedo wearing a fake ponytail and tons of makeup, who has passed out in a puddle of her own urine in front of a port-o-let.

Luckily that scene gave me the inspiration to pull myself up, no thanks to Mary Jane. Now who’s going to be my best girl? The combination of chic, stylish, comfortable and forgiving is not an easy relationship to replace. I am on a mission; I will find my true love once again. I cannot let my friends down. If it’s drinking shoes they demand. It’s drinking shoes I will deliver.

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Going Back

I want to lie in your bed all day and watch the light slowly come up. I want to roll over and see your eyes flutter and that little smile you give me when it’s too early to speak. I want to feel you roll over and pull me into you. I want to stay there all day until the sun begins to set.

I want no to have no worries about school and work; maybe just a thought of getting food delivered to your bed. I want to laugh and sigh. I miss your touch, your kiss, your devious ways. I miss the way you challenge me to think in ways I never knew of before we spoke. I want to listen to you talk about yourself as I look over at your toes.

Looks like I’m going back to San Diego. Let’s hope it all goes well.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Halflings, gnomes and other things that bump in the night

This little story takes place at an old Irish bar in the warehouse district of town. Sure it’s a chain and it’s a fake replica of an Irish bar, but for some reason the people who live in this sleepy little town like to go there. Maybe they like it because some of the workers are Irish, and when they order their Guinness they get a proper “Cheers to ya” salutation.

One day after a hard day of laboring yours truly went down to the pub to have herself a pint. She was in the company of a gnome, and it was a beautiful afternoon. If memory serves me right, I believe they skipped hand in hand on the way there. Once there Amanda and the gnome bellied up to the outside bar and began conversing with the smiling group that formed for happy hour. A couple of pints later Amanda felt the need to find the ladies room. She stumbled inside and found one of her coworkers, the giant, sitting at the bar with her friends. Delighted to see her friends, Amanda yelled out her greetings and joined them. The giant invited Amanda to sit down and have herself a freedom shot. A halfling, seated at the edge of the bar, chirped in “I want to buy Amanda a freedom shot too!” Since it isn’t unusual for strangers, all be they unknown halflings, to want to have shots with Amanda, the little person was invited to have a seat with the other ladies at the bar. One, two, three, “TO FREEDOM!” yelled the giant, the halfling, and the two other normal sized girls.

A couple of minutes later the gnome went to see where his little friend Amanda was hiding. He walked inside to see her seated with the giant and the halfling. A look of panic struck his face as Amanda called him over. “Not right now, thanks!” yelled the gnome as he ran back outside. Thinking this was of very odd of her lover the gnome, a quizzical look came across Amanda’s face. She looked at her friends with confusion, but continued imbibing herself with assorted sundries. The halfling looked at Amanda and asked if she was involved with the gnome. Amanda thought about this for a second wondering what the halfling might say if she didn’t know about her relationship with the gnome. She decided to lie and tell the little woman they were just friends. Amanda was about to learn the importance of telling the truth and knowing your audience.

The halfling quickly turned her head glancing for eavesdroppers up and down the bar. Once she was convinced no one was paying attention, she decided to tell a secret to her new pals. Her story went like this:

A few years ago the gnome use to work at this very bar. I am a regular here and often saw him eyeing me. One night he asked me back to his place. I knew he was moving in the next couple of weeks, but I always thought he was rather attractive for a gnome. I was filled with curiosity and eagerly went to his house. All I can tell you is that the gnome’s penis is exactly XXX inches long, with a slight curve to the left. He’s extremely rough in bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was doing. To the contrary he was a very skilled and passionate lover. The next morning I awoke to bruises all over my body. I called him the next day, and he would not return my calls. He left town without ever saying a word to me. He moved back a year ago, and when he sees me now he avoids me and will not speak to me.

Amanda was shocked at the depiction of her lover as seen through the halfling’s eyes. She realized immediately that she knew things about her gnome that she was not intended to learn. Even more shocking was that the halfling’s description of her lover was exactly and painstakingly correct. The little woman had not forgotten one single detail of her gnome’s body, the way that he made love, or his intensity.

The giant, seeing how large Amanda’s eyes had become, asked Amanda if she had ever been with her friend. Amanda looked down and said, “A real woman can come away from that gnome without any bruises. And if she’s really good to him, he’ll love her for a lot longer than one night”. With that, Amanda let out a huge laugh and went to have a seat outside next to her gnome.

A year later Amanda was back at that very same bar. On her way to the lady’s room Amanda spied the little halfling sitting in her usual stool. The wee lass was sipping her beer and swinging her dangling feet. Amanda smiled to herself and noted the halfling sitting at the bar to her friend. Her friend replied, “Oh THAT halfling. Yes, Amanda she lives in the barrel that creates the stand for the table to the right.”

It’s true my friends, there is a halfling that resides at an Irish bar in the warehouse district and sleeps in the barrel in the outside patio. Every afternoon she crawls out of her little dwelling and hops up on the stool to order a pint and wait for the day the gnome will come back and love her for longer than just one night.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Get on up!

I picked up the newspaper yesterday and saw a picture of Lance Armstrong, Cheryl Crow, Will Ferrell, and Robin Williams riding in the Race for the Roses. The ride took place last weekend here in Austin. A couple thoughts went through my head, and I thought I would share them.

First of all, I didn’t realize that X-junkies were so great at riding bikes. Who knew? Is this some sort of tip they give you in Narcotics Anonymous? I also wonder if their little damaged hearts can take such a rigorous challenge. I would hate to think of one of them collapsing on the side of the road. My next thought was that I don’t really like Lance, and why do people hang out with him? Oh yea, money.

I ride the MS150 every year (it’s a 180 mile bike ride from Houston to Austin), and my friends aren’t half as funny or annoying as Robin or Will. So, I think I’ll send them a letter and ask them to ride with me next year. Here’s my draft:

Dear Robin and Will,

I recently notice the two of you were in town for the Ride for the Roses with Lance. I was wondering if you might consider riding the MS150 with me next year. Although we’ve never met, I can tell you that I am much more fun than Lance.

I use to hang out with Lance during my college days, and I know how he can be quite prissy and self absorbed. I realize that I haven’t socialized with him in years, but I hear he’s only gotten worse. I, on the other hand, am super fun and will have you in stitches over stories about line cooks and my trips to the acupuncturist.

If you come to Austin, I won’t take you to snobby places and demand a bad bottle of wine. I will take you both out for a true night in Austin. Maybe we could go for drinks at the Austin Hotel, dinner at Maudie’s, and then more drinking and dancing downtown. For you added pleasure, you will not have to hang out with Ms. Crow. No emaciated old women here, no sir. Only the finest Texas has to offer will be at your disposal.

I do ask that you tell me jokes for the entire 180-mile ride. I realize at times your humor is irritating and juvenile, but I will just ride faster. Will, you are more than welcome to ride naked if you prefer. At first I will die of laughter, and then when you start to frighten me, I’ll pedal faster than Mr. Fancy Pants in the Tour De France. I really hope you’re coked up hearts can take a challenge, if not we can pick up what ever drugs you need before we start in Houston.

Unfortunately, I am unable to buy my friends and lovers like Lance. However, I will offer you my clever whit and funny songs (God Bless My Honda) as a tribute to your presence. I will introduce you to my friends and some of them will smoke cigarettes during the ride. (Just try to stay in front of them if you don’t like the smoke) Some of the people on my team are bike couriers; so don’t be scared of their odd appearances. You can laugh at them if you want, but they’ll just laugh back at your little penises hiding in your tight bike shorts.

Instead of staying at some fancy resort we will camp out at the Fair Grounds in La Grange. The only thing notable about this town is that ZZ Top members use to come here and stay at the whorehouse. Sorry boys, they shut it down years ago. You will have your choice of Bud Light or Coors Light from the cooler by our tents (we’re usually out of Chateau Nuf De Pap), and will wake up to the blaring sound of “Sweet Home Alabama”. I know it sounds dreadful, but you have no idea how motivating truly horrific music can be at 5:45 in the morning. You can also bet that my friends will be drunk and passing out on ant beds by 8:00 pm and losing their socks in the port-o-potties.

In comparison to Mr. Fancy Pants Womanizer, I’m sure you can see how much more fun I would be on a long distance ride. Please start training now, as the ride is in April. And if you’re in Austin and don’t feel like being bored to death by an egomaniac, please feel free to give me a call.

Your Pal,


Tuesday, October 19, 2004

My coworker has his office door open and is talking to a salesman. I feel like my dad’s in there, and his voice is making me feel embarrassed.

It wasn’t until I was 21 that I became embarrassed of my father. Growing up I thought he was a load of fun. He would take me out on the weekend in the convertible for a burger and we’d sing along to oldies on the radio. He religiously took me to piano every week from the ages of 3 to 15, and read in the car until I was finished. He did things to make me feel special, like a Dad should.

At 21 my father disowned me for the first time. He was upset that I “chose” my mother during their divorce. Since I was an adult, it hadn’t dawned on me that one of my parent’s would actually make me take sides in their personal life. When I told him that I refused to play his games, he told me that I was no longer a part of his life. This lasted for several years. During this time I learned my father was the best salesman I’d ever meet.

He was cunning and manipulative, so much so I never realized until years later how little he really cared for me. I mistook his random acts of kindness for being a good father. What did I know? I had nothing to compare him to. It took me a long time to realize the years of verbal abuse and neglect that I endured from my father had stayed with me.

I was driving home from college a couple of years later, and felt a sense of urgency rush through me. Something I was listening to brought the thought of my father to me. I was furious at him for disowning me, and walking out of my life. I immediately drove to his old office, not knowing if he still worked there. I walked in and asked to speak to him, waited my turn, and was escorted in by some brunette.

As I walked in my father’s eye were not shocked or surprised to see me. He simply smiled that devious way that salesmen do, and asked, “What can I do for ya?” I was startled and began shaking. This was the first time in years I had seen or spoken to my father, and his reaction was to treat me like a client. I glared at him, and asked for an apology for being so selfish. He laughed and asked me to leave, saying if I wanted something I could write him. I was defeated and left more hurt than before.

Three years later my father came up to my boyfriend (later the x-hubby) at party. The X and I were side by side, yet my father maintained a conversation with him without ever making eye contact with me. My X, not knowing what to do, tried to introduce him to me. He smiled that same shit-eating grin at me, and turned away. Somehow my X pulled him into our lives. I can only say that my X is one of the most amazing people you will ever meet, which is proven my his ability to create an environment where my father and I could speak to one another.

When my grandfather died my father called and bitched me out for not making it down to see Poppy before he died. My grandfather died the day before I got to the hospital. It’s one of the few regrets I have in life that I waited that extra day. I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known that. My father told me the weekend before that Poppy had 3 months left. In the end it didn’t matter, and I sat there silently as my father cursed me out. At the end of the call, I simply said, “Fuck you” and hung up. I was banned from sitting with the family at the funeral or attending the family services, due to my father’s anger. He walked up to the X and me at the gravesite and said, “Well X-hubby, I guess we’ll see you around”.

Somehow I don’t think the X will miss him too much, because somehow I don’t miss him at all. Sitting here listening to the salesman in the other room makes me remember my father’s character: always shallow, always good-looking, always charming, but for the life of him he couldn’t love someone if he tried. I can’t imagine a worse fate.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

I sent this picture to Rojo today. He tells me that its now his screen saver. It better be.

Do you ever think how strange it is that you haven't changed that much since you were 2? Sure, I can tie my shoes and do some fancy math problems, but in reality I'm still the same kid that likes to eat popsicles on the potty. Anything you ever wanted to know about me is contained in this picture, along with the thought that my parents took this picture of me. Does that seem kinda wrong to you?  Posted by Hello

Friday, October 15, 2004

The stars at night, are big with fright….deep in the heart of Texas

How good of friends are you with Lita Ford?

All I can think about are those vile lyrics:

“Went to a party last Saturday night, I didn’t get laid, I got in a fight – uh huh. It aint’ no big thang.”

For some reason whenever someone says, “It’s no big thing”, these lyrics instantly pop up in my head. I curl my lip up and start singing them. It also goes over well if you do a little eye rolling combined with some fist pumping while you sing the lyrics in your most annoying country slang. Nice. Really.

In my feisty mood, I’m hoping these lyrics won’t be the reality of my Friday night. Not that I’m much of a fighter, but I’m one hot tamale today. Pretty much everything has made me angry, and I can’t seem to get anything to go right. Still, fighting is a little much. Do women really fight?

I’ve only seen a couple of girls scrap it out, and it’s never been pretty. In high school I decided to stick up for one of my friends in the girl’s locker room. Another girl was calling her names and threatening to hit her. I told the girl she could hit me if she wanted to, thinking she would be scared of me. Thinking back on it, I was about 5’4 and 95 lbs. Not so scary. I guess she saw that too, because she popped me in the eye like a boxer. I stood there shocked, and all that came out of my mouth was “I can’t believe you really hit me”. I finally believed her later that afternoon when I had a black eye as physical proof.

Other than that, I only encountered meaningless little girly scraps from time to time in high school. In college people were too busy being smarter than their friends to care about physical brutality.

The last catfight I witnessed was a couple of years ago at Willy Nelson’s 4th of July picnic. (Man, I bet that line scared the life out of some of you.) You can pretty much guess how that went down. Shirts were ripped, confederate flag panties were strewn about (no, I wish I was lying), and fat was flying in every direction possible. I would say that one of the ladies lost her tooth, but I’m sure that was previous to the fight. I wonder who won the waify little man?

Now that I wrote this, I am scared to death that I live in Texas. I’m going home and pour myself a Lone Star.

**Quick side note: I was trying to find a picture of someone that looked like women I was describing above and came across “Trailer Park Toys”. Whhhaat? How nice! Now kids can buy little trailers, like the ones they live in, to play with. Warms my heart.

Just so you know, my sign has changed again.

It now reads: Bitch better step the fuck back before I knock her the fuck out.
Yes, it’s been one of those days.

And if anyone, other than me, ever said that about my sister I’d go ca-razy on their ass. Like James Brown said, “I may not no karate, but I know ca-razy”.


I remember being about 6 years old and loving baths. My hair was down to my but back then, and I would swirl my hair around in the water watching it whip past me. I desperately wanted to be a mermaid. I wanted to live hundreds of miles down in the sea, in a vast land of silent serenity. As a child I would lie with my nose above the water so I could breathe, while the rest of me was submerged. My eyes would start to sting as I stared up at the ceiling from underneath the blanket of warm tap water. It was quiet and peaceful. It was my escape.

I got home from dinner and drinks last night and found myself floating in my tub; trying to escape. I tried swooshing my hair around me, but it’s too short now. I can’t get the same weightless affect I use to embrace as a child. I looked up at the ceiling and starting thinking about how I need to paint the room soon. I wanted to escape, and yet my mind was turning pages of all the things I need to do. Peace, where are you?

I started to have a conversation with my grandfather, who passed away several months ago, in my mind. He told me to slow down, and that everything would get done. He tells me I will be fine. Yet, I couldn’t allow myself to be calm.

I laid there withering in the water, wishing to be a mermaid. I thought of how my beautiful tail would be iridescent and strong. Imagining I could swim away to new reefs should something disturb me. I long to be free to go as I please without a material home to tie me down, or a job with responsibilities, or a phone with demands.

I just want to be floating with my long hair again in a surreal and silent space.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours

Don’t you wish people came with little signs in order to instruct you how to handle them? Something like the stamp on the envelope that reads, “Fragile handle with care”. Some days you could be a “Caution, will bite head off” or “Beware, doesn’t feel like working and will talk to you for hours”. Life would be so much simpler.

I wish there were post it notes on people's heads that said, “Unable to communicate with other human beings” and “Freak-show”. I usually don’t get these warnings until it’s too late. So in the vain of trying to create a clearer way of life, I am going to tell everyone what I need for today.

Please, please, handle me with kid gloves.

I mean it with all my heart. I know I’m the girl who’s usually happy and smiling, but today life seems so hard to me. I need a little love right now, and I’m tired of not asking for it or pretending that I don’t need anything at all. It’s where I am, and I know it’s not where I’ll stay. Before long I’ll be your good old pal at the bar, introducing you to the 5 new friends I just met in the last hour. But today, do me this favor. Please be sweet to me, I wouldn’t ask for it unless I really needed it.

And if there’s something you need today, let me know. I’ll do my best to honor your wishes, because there's no use in playing games. You'll never get what you want, unless you ask for it.

Thursday, October 07, 2004


Please help me. I beg you. If you’ve read anything on this site, you might know that I don’t have the best luck in the world with boys. However recently, it seems I’ve hit a new low. Point in case? Below is an actual conversation that yours truly had with a boy this weekend. First let me set the stage.

It’s an overcast humid day in Austin, and I’m sitting in the parking lot of one of my favorite Cuban restaurants. The restaurant burnt down a couple of weeks ago, so they are throwing a benefit party for the people who use to work there and no longer have jobs. There is a band playing, food cooking, people dancing, and everyone is drinking and having a good time. I am on a bench across from Cal (my best guy-friend), Simon, Simon’s girlfriend for the hour and PP180 (super drunk boy at the party whom I have never met before).

PP180: Hey! Hey Amanda.
Me: Ya? What?
PP180: Would you like me to come over there and pee on your right thigh?

** At this point, I think I must have misheard some part of that statement**

Me: Huh? Pee?
PP180: Ya, dude. I could pee on you….or poo on you, if you’d rather.

You know, this begs for the question: How lucky can I be? Just to think the male species either a) wants to mark me like their territory or b) thinks of me as a human toilet.

I’ll take any suggestion you’ve got!

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Stupid Ho

Dear Person(s) at work who enforce the pantyhose rule:

It is of great regret that I inform you that I will, from here on out, not abide by your pantyhose rule. While I understand a large majority of the women here might need to wear this contraption, those of us who work out and see the sun on a somewhat regular basis find this rule utterly ridiculous.

It is my understanding that management perceives nylons as a way to uphold our professional image. I, on the other hand, could care less about this so-called respectable image. Sure I realize these little bits of see-through material make my legs look pretty, but have you seen the majority of the men that work here. In fact, I implore you hire better-looking men. If management can comply with this request, I will reconsider my stance. Other than my girlcrush here at work, there is no need for me to impress any of my other colleges. Once more, I do not see clients on a frequent basis. Therefore exuding an atmosphere of professional dress is wasted on these buffoons.

I would also like to mention there is no similar ruling towards men. I do not see any language in the employee manual outlining which types of socks are appropriate for my male peers. Could this be seen as discrimination? My sweaty feet would like to know.

I am willing to offer up a dirty pair of ruined hose for the first male in this company to see what this horrid device is truly like. In order to truly walk in my shoes, I will also donate a pair of heels to the cause. Yes it’s true you might feel quite glamorous at 8:30, but please be patient and wait until 4:30 or 5:00 to tell me how you feel. Yes, I know you have a happy hour at 5:30 and your hose have a tear. Yes I realize you’re not attending a Hole concert, nor do you want to appear to be a tramp with holey stockings. This is part of the fun you have inflicted on me, and I want you to revel in it.

Therefore, from now on you will find me with naked legs. If you’re lucky, I will shave them. If my requests are not met, I will crumple up a pair of these stinky hose and hide them in your ficus tree so you can work with the fumes of a hundred stinky feet.

Yours truly,
The Melting Snowflake in workpod #52

Friday, October 01, 2004

Blue grey days

I’m a lot like the weather here in Austin today, a little grey mixed with a hint of blue. On my lunch break I listened to Eclecticos play Chopin and drove around the city.

Late last night my phone rang, and it was exactly the person I wanted it to be. I stopped myself before I answered. I lay in bed and watched my phone light up over and over, call after call. I knew it would hurt to hear his voice. I knew he was drunk since it was late, so I pulled the covers over my head and tried not to cry.

I picked up my voice mail a couple of minutes later. I listened to the messages over and over again since he was telling me he loves me and misses me. But I know. I know that some things just don’t work, even if you want them to. I know the line between love and hate is marred with expectations and disappointment. I know the days of rolling around with him in bed for hours, riding bikes, and long talks in the bathtub are gone. I know that I only see glimpses of who he is now that he’s gone.

So I miss him. I try to avoid him. I try to not listen to those songs or go to those bars. I try to remember all the bad times. I try not to remember us laughing and telling stories in the morning sunshine, the flowers he’d give me on bad days, and the way he tucks my hair behind my ears. I forget the way he looks at me and how he loves the way I look driving his truck.

I lay there, and I try to forget.

I hear Miss K telling me, “It’s not that he doesn’t care about you. He does. He just doesn’t care enough.”

And it gets darker, and I finally fall asleep.

The next day starts, and I spend the morning trying to forget. Trying to avoid something that’s not a threat in my life. I promise myself I won’t call him back; I won’t pick up the phone, or answer another email.

Then my office line rings, I pick it up without looking and am shocked to hear his voice. I look down and cover my eyes.

What’s up, baby? Talk to me. I miss you. Tell me what I can do.”

Testing, testing 1.2.3.

Am I in some type of trippy dream state? Did anyone else hear this statement from Bush in last night’s debate?

You know, it's hard work to try to love her as best as I can, knowing full well that the decision I made caused her loved one to be in harm's way. I told her after we prayed and teared up and laughed some that I thought her husband's sacrifice was noble and worthy.

Um…what? Why does he look confused? Oh yea, this doesn’t make any sense. Well, unless you hit on widows after you send their husbands off to war.

I couldn’t wait to see the Daily Show’s take on this blurb, but I got nothing. I woke up wondering if I drank too much and imagined him saying that. I felt relieved to find it in the transcript from the debate last night. Am I the only one who thinks this is odd?

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