My mother ran into my 9th grade English teacher today.  Ah, Mrs. Creasy, giver of the one C on my high school transcript.  This woman had given me hell, or at least so I thought at the time.  But my point is not to wax on about that tough English teacher who ended up having some profound influence on me.  Mrs. Creasy was a memorable teacher, a good teacher, but she was not the teacher who turned my world upside down, although I know she did that for many of my classmates. What she did do was teach me to make notecards, those pesky little index cards covered with "important" quotations and bibliographic information, smudged with black ink fingerprints.  

I hated notecards.  They were a waste of time.  Why couldn't I just type everything up in a Word document?  Get with the times, Mrs. Creasy, I thought to myself. She explained the benefits of the notecards: we could shuffle them around as we organized our research papers.  We could lay them on the kitchen table to get a big picture idea of our argument.  Whoopie, I thought.  But I had no say in the matter, and I was required to keep making notecards throughout high school. The entire English department swore this was important for college.  But you know what?  I never made a single notecard in college.  What was point, when I could just copy and paste things around on my laptop?  I made it through my courses just fine.  

Well, today, I ate my words.  I have a twenty-page paper for my MFA program hanging over my head.  I have never written a research paper of this length (I think fifteen pages has been my max).  I have no clue how I am going to focus my argument; all I know is which books I plan to use.  When my mother called to tell me she saw Mrs. Creasy, everything I learned in 9th grade came flooding back--the good, the bad, and the tedious.  And a lightbulb went off in my head. Notecards!! And so, I pulled out my old MLA handbook, and I started to make notecards.  I still have no idea where I am heading with this paper, but the notecards are at least making me feel as though I have a plan, which may just be half the battle. 

I spent yesterday eating my way through the Texas State Fair.  Technically, Ben and I had driven to Dallas to watch the Red River Rivalry football game (the annual showdown between Texas and Oklahoma for those of you/us laymen), but really I came for the fried food.

I tend to avoid most fried foods in my real life, but a trip to a state fair is like Thanksgiving--nothing you eat has any calories.  I started off the morning with a Belgian waffle smothered in whipped cream, powdered sugar, and strawberries, purchased the second we walked through the entrance.  Ben walked a few feet ahead of me, pretending he did not know the woman covered from head to toe in powdered sugar.  After spending four hours not-eating during the football game (yeah, yeah, Texas won, great), I bolted from the stadium to get my hands on a "Corny" dog, which was just your standard, delicious corn-dog but deep-fried to a crisp perfection and complimented by an ice cold lemonade.  Next came one of those giant turkey legs that makes you feel like a total savage when you sink your teeth into it.  We hit a bump in the road when we made our way over to the fried butter stand (a prize-winning treat at this year's fair) and saw what looked to be at least a 45-minute long line.  The compromise: fried s'mores, which we told ourselves were way better than any old fried butter.  Besides, I heard the fried butter tasted like an undercooked biscuit. Big deal.  We topped off the afternoon with a basket of Tornado Taters, which were pretty much like your basic potato chips but way more delicious: freshly deep fried so they were hot and chewy instead of crispy.  On our way out, we used out leftover tickets to buy a caramel apple that has my name on it for an afternoon snack any minute now...

Other noteworthy, albeit non-edible, sights:

• World's smallest horse: We paid a dollar each to step right up and check out Tiny Tim, supposedly only 6 inches when he was born.  And you know what?  He was a total heifer, weighing in at 85 pounds.  I was picturing a horse so small my jaw would drop, the size of a lap dog.  Total rip-off.  And a little sad and creepy to see him in his coffin-esque underground bunker (designed to prevent a free-for-all).
• Pig races: If you can stand a little hokey farm humor, the pig races are a fairly pleasant, fairly disturbing way to pass the time while you rest your feet.  This was a little sad and creepy, too, watching these four little pigs jump hurdles around a track for the prize of one Oreo, but maybe it's better than the fair's alternatives (pork chop on a stick or chicken fried bacon baskets).
• Petting zoo: I paid a dollar for a dixie cup of feed to try my luck with the baby giraffe, zebra, and standard billy goats and lambs.  I had little luck with the cuter baby animals (shorter attention spans, I assume) and had to make due with some horned animal about my size whose age was a little dubious.  Like all of the above, a little sad and creepy.

Lessons learned from my first state fair?  Number 1: Get in line for the fair's prize-winning treat before you do anything else.  Blink and you'll miss it.  Number 2: Avoid the live animals and stick to the fried ones.  I really did feel guiltier watching the pig races than I did eating my Corny dog.  Or my turkey leg.  Isn't that awful? And now I feel guilty about feeling that way.  Salad for dinner!

After spending three months in Los Angeles teaching summer school and mooching off my parents, I returned to Austin on Monday with both a heavy heart and a twinkle in my eye.  It's back to my own apartment, my own laundry and groceries, and relative quiet.  I have spent the past few summers since graduation living with my parents and two younger sisters, and I'm always thrilled to spend time with my family and take advantage of the perks (pool, stocked fridge, my mother's closet, the Southern California weather).  But as happy as I am to arrive, (close your ears, Mom) I am just as thrilled to say adieu in August and get back to being able to control the thermostat and the remote control. 

Even though I know that leaving home is the healthy thing to do (at least according to Western values and my boyfriend), I remain ambivalent about making the transition.  It seems that the very thing I miss most about home (the constant companionship of a big family) is what I appreciate most about having my own place--a little P and Q, as my abbrev-loving sister Jillian likes to call it.  A week ago I was shrieking across the house, "Will you all just shut up so I can get some work done?"  Now, the only voice I hear is Rachel Zoe's, coming from the TV I was too lazy to turn off (no Mom here to tell me I'm wasting electricity), and I'm feeling a little lonely.  It feels embarrassingly trite to say, but why is it so hard for me to live in the moment, as Jillian once pointed out to me in a rare moment of Zen.  Why can't I be glad I'm in LA when I'm in LA and be glad I'm in Austin when I'm in Austin? Maybe I should put that on my to-do list, right after buying peanut butter and folding that pile of laundry--and reassuring my boyfriend that I really am glad to be back here...

To celebrate my best friend Jaclyn's recent engagement, a few of us girls headed out to celebrate with afternoon tea at the Montage Beverly Hills. Going out for tea is somewhat of a tradition for the group of us, and we've indulged at all the high tea hot spots in LA (the Hotel Bel-Air, Peninsula, Beverly Hills Hotel, and who can remember where else after a decade of friendship?). So, being somewhat of connoisseurs, we held our 3 pm treats to the highest standards. 

Perhaps it was the complimentary champagne our waiter brought us to toast the bride-to-be or the couldn't-be-cuter china place settings, but I liked this place right off the bat. Ordering was simple--all we had to select was our tea of choice. I'm a traditionalist and stuck to English Breakfast, but my friends sampled organic teas with fun-to-say names like "Mightea Aphroditea." We settled happily into our armchairs and plush sofas and prepared to overeat. How is it, by the way, that with food so tiny one always manages to leave feeling uncomfortably full?

I had warned my friends that I didn't like "freaky" finger sandwiches (i.e. a slice of boiled quail egg atop a layer of beef carpaccio on a brioche crouton). I was thrilled to find out that the Montage valued tradition as much as I did when we were served a tray of chicken salad, egg salad, smoked salmon, cucumber, and tomato finger sandwiches. Yes, there was one prosciutto and asparagus, but I let it slide. Plus, we were alloted enough sandwiches for each lady to have one of each--no squabbling, thank goodness! As for the scones, both butter and currant? Perfection. In addition to your usual clotted cream and lemon curd, there were also bowlfuls of house made strawberry preserves, which were gladly refilled upon request. The only disappointment came with the dessert course, which didn't surprise me (this is usually the case at afternoon tea, in my opinion). The teensy pastries and tarts were adorable, but just couldn't compete with the divine scones and the sandwiches, especially when we were already reclining into our food comas. The one dessert worth its salt was the slice of cake with "Happy Engagement" written in chocolate on the plate. The harpist even struck up Pachelbel's Canon in honor of my friend. Could you get any more celebratory?

Last but not least, the whole shebang was entirely reasonable, at $30 a lady. I'll toast to that!

I rarely manage to write a decent paragraph in the confines of my own home. Somedays it's my boyfriend's fault (how dare he open the refrigerator door noisily!).  Other times, my apartment is too messy to focus, or I am too far behind on my recorded TV shows.  When I absolutely must produce words, it's imperative that I get the heck out of dodge and into the nearest coffee joint.  By the time I've found parking and paid four bucks for a cup 'o joe, there is enough cognitive dissonance going on to guarantee I stay put for an hour.

At times, I make due with Char-bucks (usually for proximity's sake), but in each city I've lived (and currently live)--Los Angeles, Evanston, and Austin--one special coffee house has wormed its way into my heart.

Espresso Profeta, Los Angeles, CA
I don't love "Profeta" simply because I am a sucker for shabby chic decor.  Not only do the hiply dressed baristas whip up a mean cappuccino, but the wooden tables are big and generously spaced.  The free wireless (password required but gladly shared) extends even to the lush courtyard outside.  When I've written a page, I reward myself with the fruit-granola-yogurt parfait.  One downside: there are only two outlets in the entire joint and the management frowns against stretching charger cords across the room, something about tripping and liability.  So charge up your laptop in advance!

Quack's, Austin, TX
Quack's has a whole lot going for it.  While the bright and cheery space is constantly filled with academic types, I have somehow never struggled to find a table.  There is free WiFi and the electrical outlets abound.  I love the wide windows that line the front of the building (people watching helps my writing when I'm stuck), but my law student boyfriend he hates watching happy people walk by (to each her own, I say).  One caveat: when I'm watching my figure, I watch out for Quack's.  Simply put, rhubarb pie, crumb coffee cake, and molasses cookies are not this girl's best friend.  

Unicorn Cafe, Evanston, IL
I can think of no cozier place to write than Unicorn Cafe, my coffee house of choice during college (its coziness probably stemming from the snow drifts outside).  What made Unicorn so welcoming was the wide and affordable lunch menu--house made sandwiches, baked goods, and soups--which enabled me to work through lunch.  Seeing your TAs at nearby tables was a blessing and a curse; you could ask one a question if needed but you'd also have to watch the volume of your gossip so as not to tarnish your intellectual image.  The cute (albeit heavily tattooed) guys behind the counter helped make each visit worthwhile.  

As I write this, you might wonder whether I am at Profeta, Quack's, or Unicorn. Well, the answer is none of the above, which is precisely why I am writing this, rather than the essay I am hiding from.  

I'm about to head out to my fifth or sixth tennis lesson, and I am still getting used to the idea that I am the proud owner of not just a tennis racquet but the requisite white, boat-like tennis shoes. Only now in my mid-twenties, have I willingly tempted the Sports Gods.

You see, I have never played a sport.  Not AYSO soccer as a six-year-old, not middle school softball--nothing.  When I was ten, my mother dragged me (whining and pouting, of course) to a two-week session at Olympic Sports Camp, to see if anything would stick.  I spent two weeks crafting daisy chains and participating in gymnastics only (my perfected center splits would later appear in the camp brochure).

I wasn't a total couch potato.  I took dance lessons from toddler-hood well though high school and later rose to power on my high school's amateur cheerleading squad.  But there was something about sports that terrified me.  The concept of winning and losing, succeeding and failing--I wanted nothing to do with it.

When my 12-year-old sister started taking tennis lessons this summer, I mentioned to my mother that I wouldn't mind learning how to play.  My friends in college had casual matches with each other, and I always felt a little wistful bowing out of their invitations.  So when my mother offered to treat me to some lessons over the summer, I decided I had nothing to lose.  If I was a total disaster, no one would have to know besides Lori, the shockingly chipper 40-something who gave lessons on her parents' Beverly Hills tennis court.

At my first lesson, I was shocked that I managed to make racquet-to-ball contact, and I felt pretty pleased with myself.  When I learned how to hit backhand and travel to the ball, I was ready to challenge Venus and Serena to a match.  Could I serve?  No.  Could I rally more than 3-4 times over the net?  In my dreams!  But did I feel proud to be overcoming a life-long phobia of courts, points, balls, nets, and competition?  More than you can imagine.

See you on the court...