capacity reached

Somewhere between full time grad school, full time work, and volunteering I reached maximum capacity. Today.

I made an excel spreadsheet at 4am to manage everything I need to get done in the next two weeks. I actually made a column that was titled, "Things to think about while driving". As I wrote these ridiculous words I realized that being this busy is A.) my own effing fault and B.) pretty dumb.

Perhaps some of you know that I like to be busy. If I'm bored for 2 seconds I start googling everything from books to read to pictures of cute animals and ways to make change happen faster. I am an information junkie. I thrive off knowing and doing. So, I took on too much. I've learned my lesson. Quality over quantity. Why am I realizing this today?

I stopped by Central Market to get dinner around 8:00. I walked in and went to the prepared food section. There were two pastas I liked. One was penne with goat cheese and tomatoes and stuff. The other was the same, but, with chicken.

I stood there. I held one in each hand. I put the one without chicken back. I walked away. I got 4 steps away and I changed my mind. I went back. I started thinking about the chickens I saw in Food Inc. Then I got worried I was going to waste away for not eating enough protein. I stood there, staring. A lady with short hair and a puka shell necklace nudged past me and got her Peanut Noodle Vindaloo Bowl with no hesitation.

Then, I started tearing up. My throat got tight. I got sweaty. My eyes filled with warm, wet tears. My exact thought was "Am I about to have a nervous breakdown in Central Market?"My second thought was "Is this a panic attack, I thought it would be more dramatic!?"

Don't worry. I didn't and it wasn't. But, I did realize that just like everything else, you can't hold stress in. You have to have a release valve. Sometimes, that valve gets opened up by a coworker asking what's wrong, or having some down time, or a tiny thing pushing you over the edge. Things like a chicken pasta bowl.

I now know my limits in an actual real way.

I got a creme brulee...and the pasta with the chicken.

It wasn't that good.

circle of the same

Hours become days. Days become weeks. Weeks turn into years. Then you are almost 26.


Somewhere between the age of 9 and 11, Claire and I were babysat by a cool older girl in HIGH SCHOOL. She was awesome. She had sweatshirts that said her school's name. She had SERIOUS homework. I remember being fascinated with her graphing calculator. I thought I would never be old enough to learn to use one (which may actually still be true). She had grown up hair and knew things about music and boys and how to work the oven. She was a magical grown up fairy.


Last weekend I hung out with my little from Big Brothers Big Sisters and I begged her not to grow up. I told her graphing calculators SUCK and that she should enjoy being 14. Want to know what she said? "I want to be a grown up so I know how to deal with stuff as good as you. I want to know what to say and where to go."


Besides being again amazed at her clarity of voice, I realized that I was that babysitter. 16+ years later, the circle of life completes a round. To her, I'm a magical grown up fairy. Then we talked about Lady Gaga's egg and decided that we should probably get a Bedazzler and make tutu's and t-shirts for the concert.


It's good to be a kid. And an adult. All at the same time. I was right.

don't breathe too much

I have been pathetically not working out for far too long, at least not on a regular schedule. So, I signed up for a 2 week intensive kick-your-butt yoga boot camp. 6:30-7:45am 4 days a week for 2 weeks.

Let's just say that I can't move without feeling that all my ab, shoulder, and arm muscles are disintegrating. It feels great. I feel great. I like vegetables and eating strawberries for dessert. It's amazing what a change of pace can do.

Today, as we held chair pose for 2 minutes, our teacher told us a story about a book she read. As sweat rolled into my eyes and I convinced myself I would not die like this, she began. There is an old Indian theory that you are born with a predetermined amount of breaths (this might be like you are born with all your eggs, it's unclear). All the breaths you have are enough to last you through your also predetermined lifetime.

Which means, that when I start breathing fast because I'm worried, impatient, pissed, or anxiety ridden I am taking my life away. Quite literally. I am shortening my time on this earth.

Now, I don't really believe that I only have a set amount of time of breaths or anything. But, I think that thinking of your life in terms of breaths is interesting. So, I set an intention.

I will not breathe fast when I am inconvenienced or when I'm anxiety ridden. I will not breathe fast when I am working hard. I will breathe smart, slow, and steady. I will not let pressure, time, or expectations rush my breath. I only have so much.

Namaste, dudes. I'm going to eat some kale chips.

round of applause

I think it was two summers ago. Maybe not. Who knows. I was at Barton Springs in ATX, watching all the hipsters and reformed hipster families mill around the 71 degree natural fed pool. I watched people lay on the grass in the sun, in love. And watched people in the shade, in love. I watched kids scrape their knees and their dads hold them. I kept count of bad tattoos and good tattoos and jort sightings.

There is a diving board that serves tiny children and grown up children. They all jump off and attempt (or succeed) at tricks. Everyone watches. It's fun and sad. And, since I can't dive, sort of maddening.

After some dude with a dragon tattoo jumped off the board and belly-flopped a little boy with shiny blond-white hair, wearing a life jacket, gingerly walked up the diving board stairs. He slowly, and carefully, walked to the edge of the of the diving board and immediately began to look terrified. He walked back and forth. Starting down the stairs, back to safety and changing his mind, walking to the edge again and becoming terrified all over again. His indecision went on for 3-5 minutes as 400 Barton Springs goers looked on, in suspense. His mom and dad grew more and more uncomfortable.

Someone started clapping. Then someone started yelling "Jump!" and before long, this little boy had 400 Austinites rooting him on. Clapping, whooping, and yelling encouraging things. Everyone knew how to encourage this kid that they didn't know. Everyone wanted him to overcome his terror and claim victory of the diving board. It was one of the only moments that I've felt that people are all the same and mostly good.

After more waffling, this now famous little boy decided he couldn't do it. It was too much. His mom picked him off the stairs and took him back to the safety of their family.

Of those 400 or so people at Barton Springs that day, everyone knew how to encourage and root for someone they don't even know. I wonder when, and how, and why this doesn't happen in real life. Why adults tear down other adults, why adults want other adults to fall and drown, or just have to back off the board. I wonder why you'd never see 400 Austinities cheering on an adult who is afraid to jump. Someone would probably call her/him a loser. Or a pussy. Or yell at them to get the F*** off the board.

Aren't we all just kids who got old?

Frito Pie Retrospective

There is a picture of my dad and me laughing in front of a steep wall of rock. I keep this picture above my sink because it reminds me of Frito Pie, my dad, laughing, and torturing my poor mother.

We were driving somewhere that had mountains. Rocky, steep cliff on one side of the curvy road, long drop off on the other. It was summer and we were on vacation. Claire and I sat in the back of the rental car. Dad drove, mom rode shotgun. Claire and I would sleep, laugh, eat, and fight. Mom would yell and dad would eat Corn Nuts and sneeze really grossly. We'd all get uber dramatic and roll down the windows to let the sneeze out.

This particular ride was memorable not because of the Corn Nuts or the gagging but because we made our mother physically ill by mentioning Frito Pie. You see, the road was curvy and Dad had a lead foot. Mom was bordering vomiting and keeping it together.

Claire and I keep a mental storage bank of things that put mom over the edge. Frito Pie is one of them. Tag teaming mom with mentions of meaty, rich Frito Pie with chili and cheese and tiny onions commenced. I talked about the color of the chili about the crunch of the Frito's. Mom was yelling at us to stop. Dad was doing the wheeze-laugh where you were sure his brain would explode.

Claire brought out a little writing board from our toy bag and I wrote "Frito Pie"and "MMMMM" with a picture of a steaming bowl. Tiny Frito like squares were coming out of the bowl.

We put this masterpiece in front of my mom's face and she started dry heaving. VICTORY!! Dad pulled over. Mom dry heaved over the edge of the mountain. Dad and I got out of the car and walked around. We watched mom wretch on this road and laughed, our arms around each other, watching victoriously.

go ahead. you'll live.

As most new years begin, I'm determined to eat right and work out and lose that part that makes my pants hard to close. I anticipate this determination will last between 2-3 weeks. I suspect, that along with every other American, I will fail to eat what I should, I'll hit snooze too many times and not workout. This year, I know it. Im not pretending. I'm trying.

The marketing engine that is America is well versed in playing on this short lived determination. I read somewhere between 4- 10,000 articles on Eat This! Not That!, how eating more legumes will help me lose belly fat, how to stay on track, and how a handful of almonds and some fucking Crasins should keep me satisfied between lunch and dinner.

The truth is, none of this shit works. Lifestyles work. Not using pasta as a coping mechanism works. Not running for Chipotle every time shit hits the fan works. Not liking Velveeta and fancy brie at the same time works. Crasins are just not the same. I don't care how many you eat.

I'm not sure why everyone needs to be told that the Olive Garden's Tour of Italy is bad for them. We know that. It has creme sauce, fried chicken, and pasta. We get it. We also get that it is ridiculously good. We don't eat out because we want to eat healthy. We eat out because it makes us feel good.

Good, healthy food has its place--in every refrigerator and every table across America. But, so does the Tour of Italy. Things like the Tour of Italy and Outback Steakhouse's Blooming Onion are what make life worth living.

Just make sure you aren't living to eat. But eating to live, really live.

Pass the brie/velveeta.

Don't. I'll vomit.

I have fond memories of Sunday lunches when I was younger, a tween and teen. Dad would cook something either really good or really gross and we'd all eat together. I'd usually be wearing some awkward outfit or oversized pajamas to hide my uneven boobs (don't worry, they are better now, kinda). My hair would be cut into a triangle, frizzy, and I'd have horrific bangs. Claire would be wearing some mismatched outfit. She would have spent the morning playing with an animal or gluing paper together or solving engineering problems in her room.

The kitchen would be warm, the newspaper strewn on one end of the table. Dad would cook with a kitchen towel over one shoulder.

I remember one Sunday well. Dad had made quite a spread. We were eating fried chicken strips and green beans and potatoes and the whole deal. Only, Claire refused to eat the green beans. She insisted over and over that she didn't like them. Dad didn't like definitive statements. Saying you would not do something was pretty much asking to be made to do it. The lunch went on like this. Dad insisting, Claire insisting should would not. Finally, lunch was over and Claire had a mess of green beans on her plate. She was going to have to eat them.

Dad and I began cleaning kitchen while tiny little Claire sat alone at the table struggling to get the green beans down. Dad was washing dishes while I piled dirty ones on the counter, one eye on Claire.

And then, Claire began to quietly and neatly vomit onto her plate. Not explosive, I'm dying of the plague vomit--but quiet, roll out of your mouth, fuck you vomit. Dad looked over just after I did. He began shaking his head. I don't remember what happened next.

What I do remember is that Claire didn't have to eat green beans anymore. To this day, I have never seen a better "told you so". Congrats Claire, you remain the queen--of timely vomiting.